


The Appearance of Love

by MagicalDragon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: ADHD Grantaire, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Autistic Enjolras, BPD Grantaire, Borderline Personality Disorder, Eventual Enjolras/Grantaire, Everyone is Queer, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Alternating, Trans Enjolras, Trans Grantaire, Trans Male Character, autistic combeferre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-29 00:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7662541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicalDragon/pseuds/MagicalDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Grantaire is roped into helping Enjolras out with Les Amis business, he ends up spending much more time alone with Enjolras than he ever has before. Feelings are brought to the forefront he'd rather ignore, forcing him to confront issues he'd rather repress. </p><p>Enjolras, for his part, is just trying to figure out what's going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire opened the door, slouched against the doorframe and looked Enjolras over with a bored look in his eyes. He looked very tired - hungover, Enjolras would imagine. He was wearing sweatpants and not much else. His mastectomy scars - Enjolras felt a pang of jealousy - were somewhat obscured by his wild hair, but most of his tummy trail was uncovered; Enjolras had to pull his eyes away. Between his fingers hung a cigarette, which he slowly moved to his lips while what had to be Polish music crept out of his door along with a faint smell of beer and cheap vodka.

"What do you want?" he asked and Enjolras started a bit, having forgotten himself for a moment as he took it all in.

"I... need your help," he admitted. Grantaire stared at him for a long moment and took a drag of his cigarette before standing up properly.

"Well, well," he said as he turned around and walked back into his apartment, leaving the door open for Enjolras "What can I, of all people, possibly help our brave leader with…?"

Enjolras had never been in Grantaire's apartment before. In some ways it was exactly as he had imagined it; small, very messy and full of alcohol. On the other hand though... A giant bookshelf filled up almost an entire wall, and on every other wall hung different types of artwork. A few were silly collages, one entirely with memes - or so Enjolras assumed, he wasn’t familiar with all the images - and another a vaporwave one featuring Joly's distinct, blockish writing style. The walls were filled with traditional art too, such as works by Claude Monet, Pablo Picasso and Frida Kahlo, as well as artwork Enjolras didn't recognise. He did recognise a poster hanging opposite the bookshelf though; it was one Feuilly had designed for a protest. Grantaire also had a copy of _La trahison des images_ because _of course_ he did.

"Well?" Grantaire prompted, but just when he did, Enjolras noticed the paint and the small canvas spread out on the table behind Grantaire.

He must have stared a bit too obviously, because Grantaire rolled his eyes, moved out of the way and made an exaggerated motion for Enjolras to look at the painting.

The painting was mostly in dark tones, ranging from greenish-grey to a dark muddied purple. It was clearly unfinished, as there were still spots where the white of the canvas could be seen, and yet Enjolras could tell what it was meant to depict. It was a street at night, a few strokes indicating where Grantaire was going to paint people sitting against the wall. There was something definitely bleak about it and Enjolras wondered if this was meant to be somewhere in particular; somewhere Grantaire frequented, perhaps.

"Thought I should bring out the oils for once," Grantaire said with a shrug and took another drag of his cigarette.

"Joly _did_ mention that you're an artist," Enjolras said.

Grantaire was shaking his head, a grimace coming over his face as he did so.

"I _used_ to be a _student_ ," he said tiredly. "I've never been an artist."

Enjolras looked up at him. Grantaire wouldn't look at him, he just kept smoking as if he hadn't noticed Enjolras' look. For a long moment the only sound in the apartment was that of Grantaire's music.

"...you didn't come here to discuss my painting," Grantaire finally said with a small, defeated sigh. "What did you need me for?"

“Well, you know about the strike…” Enjolras tone was a bit more questioning than he’d intended it to be and Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“You’ve talked about it three meetings in a row; I don’t pay a lot of attention, but even I have managed to catch on.” 

Enjolras just nodded; he didn’t think pointing out that he hadn’t meant to imply otherwise would help much. 

“I need someone to help me with an awareness campaign,” Enjolras said. “I was hoping you might help me.”

“Me?” 

“Everyone else is really busy; ‘tis the season’ and all.”

Grantaire finally put out his cigarette. Enjolras wondered if he was merely doing it to put off answering him for a while, but he had no idea if that was the case. He’d never been very good at reading people one-on-one. Not allistics, anyway. Combeferre had always been a bit easier. 

“Last I checked, Jehan, Bossuet and Combeferre didn’t celebrate Christmas, either.” He still sounded… bored or... just tired, maybe. “And you did.” 

Enjolras snorted. 

“I haven’t celebrated since I was… since I last saw my parents, 5 years ago.”

“I distinctly remember you and Courfeyrac exchanging gifts last year.”

“We always have,” Enjolras said. 

Courfeyrac and Combeferre were his oldest friends, and Enjolras and Courfeyrac had indeed been exchanging gifts for over a decade. Neither had ever done so with Combeferre; Courfeyrac had asked him, once, if he wanted to, just for the fun of it, but Combeferre had declined. That was still how it was categorised in Enjolras’ mind, though; something done for the fun of it.

“Counts as celebrating in my mind,” Grantaire said and shrugged. He didn’t actually seem to care much either way; Enjolras thought that he was probably just arguing for the sake of arguing, as he often did it. Though without alcohol in his system to urge him along, and in this tired, decidedly non-rowdy mood, it seemed more than a bit half-hearted.

“That wasn’t the point, I…” 

Enjolras struggled to gather his thoughts after the divergence in conversation. 

“Jehan is leaving for a trip to Prague soon, Bossuet and Musichetta are visiting Joly’s family and Combeferre is under a lot of pressure with his studies right now. As for Feuilly… well, when was the last time you saw him have this kind of free time?”

"Fair point," Grantaire said with a nod. He was tapping two fingers against his leg in what Enjolras recognised as a stim. “‘This kind of time’? What exactly do you need me for? You know I have no passion for these things.”

Enjolras knew that all too well. 

“I’ll try to lean on you as little as possible,” he said. “I just… We need to keep the pressure up during the holidays, we can’t let it die now, or the strike will fail; we can’t let that happen.” 

Enjolras only realised what voice he’d slipped into, and who it was he was trying to rally, when Grantaire’s look went from disinterested to… something else. Something warmer, though it was not warm like the burning fire of Enjolras’ passion; it was softer. It was gone almost as soon as Enjolras noticed it. 

“Look, I wouldn’t have bothered you with this if I had any other options,” he said. He didn’t realise his mistake till Grantaire clenched his hands and spoke in a tone dripping with venom:

“So I’m your last choice? Shocker.”

Grantaire walked resolutely towards his front door. Enjolras followed him.

“Come on, you know that’s not how I meant it,” he said. He’d meant to sound apologetic, but he wasn’t so sure he did. 

“Yes, it is,” Grantaire said as he opened the door and motioned for Enjolras to leave.  


With no idea what else to do, Enjolras did so. 

 

Grantaire was drunk. He often was, as anyone from friends to local police officers knew. He drank as a means for everything to be Less; he drank to escape…. he drank to be happy. He was self-aware enough to know so. Sometimes it didn’t have the desired effect, however; sometimes he got as low as ever while drunk, and tonight was such a time. 

It hadn’t been in the beginning. He’d left his apartment not long after throwing Enjolras out. His goal hadn’t been getting wasted, though he’d certainly been open to the possibility, and well, then he ended up in some bar only to stumble his way home around 3 am, sniffling quietly, and now here he was, sitting on his bedroom floor sobbing with a beer he didn’t remember taking from his fridge.

Enjolras hated him. Surely, he must. He’d thrown Enjolras out. Lovely, passionate Enjolras, who was so much better than himself; who was damn near perfect. He shouldn’t have.. he… he shouldn’t have. He should have just done what Enjolras wanted; maybe then Enjolras wouldn’t hate him. Maybe he’d even pay him attention, give him the odd compliment. On what, Grantaire didn’t know, though; there wasn’t much about Grantaire to compliment. 

Enjolras had… he’d angered Grantaire. Grantaire couldn’t help but hate him a little, just then, just as he confirmed how little he cared about Grantaire. Could he blame him, though? Could he blame anyone for not caring about him, useless, pathetic human that he was? Of course Enjolras hated him. Of course he preferred all the others to him. Who wouldn’t? 

But maybe…. 

Grantaire began searching hectically for his phone. Maybe this wasn’t entirely unfixable. Maybe he could fix it. Maybe if he… if he just… Enjolras would still find him repulsive, but maybe he wouldn’t outright hate him if Grantaire just did as he’d asked? 

How foolish he’d been! Alone time with Enjolras! He should have said yes immediately. He should have said, “Yes, of course I’ll help you, this work is so important”! Enjolras would have… liked that, right? That would have been.. right.. right for the situation. He should have…. but yes, fixing it… he had to… 

Where in the _world_ was his phone?

Grantaire wasn’t sure how long it took before he found his phone, but it felt like forever. He’d accidentally left it in the fridge; he must have done it when he got that beer. 

He tapped clumsily at the touch screen, managing to get to messenger after a few mistakes. He stared at the screen a bit, squinting his eyes as he tried making sure his message to Enjolras was readable:

sorrt. ill do iit. whee?

Eh. Close enough. 

...Grantaire felt utterly and completely pathetic.

He laid down on his bed and hated himself until sleep granted him peace. 

 

There were lots of people on the street as Enjolras and Combeferre walked down it, but not enough that it seemed hectic to Enjolras. Combeferre seemed at ease with his surroundings, too, as made evident by how he was walking and reading at the same time. Enjolras couldn’t tell what book it was and he didn’t even feel qualified to guess; Combeferre read a lot. 

“I fell over this part about ciphers yesterday,” Combeferre told him while pointing to a section of the book. “It’s really fascinating, wish I had time to read up on it right now, but with exams and everything…” 

He shook his head with a slight grimace. 

“You can tell me about it on the way, if you want,” Enjolras said. “Might help clear your head of it a bit so you can focus on your exams.”

Combeferre gave him a lopsided smile. 

“Or it might just make me more excited,” he said. “But I really _do_ want to talk about it, so if you don’t mind…”

“I don’t,” Enjolras confirmed and Combeferre excitedly began infodumping as they made their way down the street. Enjolras was going to a café to meet up with Grantaire and Combeferre was headed to meet up with a study group. They lived relatively close to each other, and they often met up for no particular reason other than that the other felt like home to them. As Combeferre talked, Enjolras listened intently - although passersby might have thought he wasn’t listening at all, as he wasn’t looking at Combeferre - as Combeferre told him about different methods and uses of encryption. He was very smart, Combeferre, but his thirst for and enthusiasm about knowledge was really what made him so admirable, Enjolras thought; he and Feuilly really were quite similar, weren’t they? 

“So you see, in the ancient world, if you wanted to make sure people couldn’t…” 

Combeferre trailed off. 

“Oh, wait, I’m going the other way here!” He said. 

Enjolras looked around them and realised he’d forgotten to take notice of their surroundings, too. 

“You’ll have to tell me more about it later,” Enjolras grinned and Combeferre gave him a quick hug.

“With pleasure!” he said and then hurried along. 

Enjolras looked at the time and realised that, though he wasn’t late yet, he might well soon be if he didn’t hurry a bit, too, so he walked with intense steps the last few dozen meters to the café. 

Grantaire was drinking a large cup of coffee when Enjolras arrived, and he looked like he needed it. He looked as, if not more, tired than the day before; Enjolras was glad he’d waited to meet up with him till the afternoon. 

Enjolras waved at him with a small smile as he went to order his own coffee. The café was blessedly half empty, so there was no queue, and Enjolras didn’t have to wait long at all till he could get down to business. Well, apart from…

Enjolras sat down across from Grantaire and hesitated for a moment.

“I’m sorry if I… “ he began but Grantaire shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I overreacted; I do that.” 

Grantaire was staring down at his coffee. Enjolras didn’t enjoy eye contact, so he wouldn’t have minded if it wasn’t for the fact that Grantaire did seem a bit… defeated. 

“Well, if you…” Enjolras tried again: “I’m still sorry.” 

He didn’t know how to phrase what he thought he ought to get across; that Grantaire’s feelings were valid. He hoped what he’d said would suffice. 

Grantaire laughed a bit; quietly, humorlessly, without any boisterousness or mockery.

“Yeah, well…” He said in a tone of voice matching that of his laughter. “What do you need me to do?”

Enjolras leapt at the opportunity to use a well-developed script instead of treading water and began to explain how they were going to support the strike by raising awareness. There were posters with dates for an upcoming protest and the web address of the union’s website to be hung up and similar fliers to be created and distributed. Grantaire was folding a napkin into a bird as he spoke of it. When he was done, Grantaire looked up at him.

“So… what are we doing today?” he asked.

Enjolras blinked at him. “Uhm, we’re... hanging up some posters.” 

Grantaire nodded then looked at him again. 

“You already told me, didn’t you? Sorry; I’ve forgotten to pick up my meds.” 

“Meds?”

“ADHD,” Grantaire said with a shrug. “I only bother with them half the time these days; school was hell before I got them though.” Grantaire paused and made a face. “Well, school was hell all the way through, but, you know…” 

Enjolras smiled awkwardly. 

“So that’s why you stim,” he said. 

“Probably.” Grantaire shrugged. “For you it’s Asperger’s right?” 

“Yeah. Though I usually just say autism.” 

To be honest, Enjolras sometimes felt a bit self-conscious about being diagnosed with Asperger’s in particular; he was of the opinion that he’d probably gotten that particular one, rather than another on the spectrum, because he was a white-passing kid with rich parents. 

“Don’t you hate that thing when neurotypicals tell you the vaguest shit ever and then get mad at you when you get it wrong? Like explain what you mean then, geez!” 

Enjolras laughed. 

“ _God_ , yeah.” 

They both laughed a bit, and then they continued talking and laughing for a bit longer. Enjolras found he liked this Grantaire. Well, he never really disliked the man, but Grantaire was prone to frustrating him, whether by being intentionally annoying or by making Enjolras and the others worried. This afternoon, though, he was pleasant and fun and Enjolras thought he might just have seen the Grantaire that Joly and Lesgles had originally befriended all those years ago. 

After drinking their coffee they took a stack of posters each and parted ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is listening to [this album](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QdLFNgn5J-E&list=PL4LMOh6tt92eSrwrdEZGwHpCmEJhqzSlZ) called _Księga Emigrantów_ ("Book of Emigrants")
> 
> A translation of one of the songs can be found [here](http://lyricstranslate.com/en/nienawidz%C4%99-ci%C4%99-polsko-i-hate-you-poland.html)
> 
> This will update every two weeks (next chapter 17/08)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://holmganga.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for mentions of anti-black racism.

“I can’t believe you!”

Grantaire winced. Oh no. He knew that voice. He turned around in his seat and saw that yes, that was indeed Enjolras. He was with Bahorel, which at least explained how he’d managed to find the one bar Grantaire had been at all evening.

“You could at least have told me instead of going awol! If this is some kind of prank or joke or… or...”

Grantaire got off his bar stool and walked - a bit unsure, but admirably steadily considering the drink he’d just downed, if he did say so himself - towards Enjolras and Bahorel.

“There he is,” Grantaire said and made a sweeping gesture, addressing the people who’d already turned to look at the commotion. “The Robespierre of the modern day - or perhaps the Saint-Just? - the French Lenin, a man who could lead the people as surely as Liberty, if the people were inclined to follow anyone… They aren’t of course; we are not built to care, Steppenwolves that we are…”

Bahorel was saying something to him, but Grantaire didn’t pay attention. His eyes were fixed on Enjolras; Enjolras, for his part, did nothing but stare at him in indignation.

“Why are you so angry, Enjolras? Nothing means anything. The world has never been good. It’ll… it never will be; why spend time on that? Why not enjoy yourself instead?”

Grantaire wasn’t even sure why he was saying any of this. He usually wasn’t, not in this mood. It just came flooding out, as if the alcohol forced words out the way it might bile.

Bahorel grabbed one of his arms and attempted to guide him a bit away from the center of the room.

“Bahorel! Bahorel, let go of me, will you? I’m talking to Enjolras. Enjolras, who does not like me, who would much rather have anyone else help him. I understand. What use am I? Oh well, I can at least offer him a drink, now that he’s here; you too, Bahorel, don’t you worry, you too.”

It was too dark to tell, but if Bahorel looked worried, it probably wasn’t about missing out on a drink.

“Will you drink with me, then, Enjolras? Or are you just here to yell at me?”

“R, please,” Bahorel mumbled. “Let’s get out of here.”

To even his own surprise, Grantaire relented. The cold winter air that met him as they stepped outside seemed to chase away the worst of the intoxication, and Grantaire slowly began to realise what this was about even before Enjolras began to talk.

“I walked through part of the area you were meant to cover,” Enjolras said in what someone who didn’t know him might think was a calm voice. “Why would you even agree to do it, if you weren’t going to?!”

“I was going to, I just…”

His voice was small; gone was the rowdiness.

“I thought you would do it right then, as I did, as we discussed,” Enjolras said. “Christ, R, it’s been days.”

“Enjolras…”

“I really thought this time, you know?” He looked almost sad. “That this time you'd come through, but it’s all a big joke to you, isn't it?! Annoying Enjolras and his silly crusade!"

“That's not… I thought this time, too…”

“What happend?” Enjolras asked icily.

Grantaire sighed. Bahorel had let go of him and he felt a bit unsteady - quite overstimulated as well, though that was neither here nor there - so he sat down with his back against the wall to the bar. He took several moments to try and gather his thoughts through the fog of drunkenness and sleep deprivation, but to no avail.

“I… you…”

He didn’t know how to explain. He knew what had happened. He’d split on Enjolras. Again. But no way he was explaining that to Enjolras; he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. If he did, Enjolras would know just how awful Grantaire was and he’d surely cast him aside and he’d tell the others and they would do the same, and Grantaire… Grantaire would be all alone...

The thought of Enjolras knowing made his breath come fast and he buried his head in his lap, arms hugging his knees as he tried desperately not to be completely pathetic in front of Enjolras and Bahorel. The only people he’d feel okay about being around for this - if it went further, which please, please, let it not, please - would be Joly or Bossuet, and they were far from Paris at present.

“Can I touch you?” Enjolras asked calmly.

Grantaire was surprised; surprised that it was Enjolras who would approach him and surprised to hear him speak so softly. The tone of voice was in and of itself surprising, but directed at Grantaire? After how he’d behaved?

Grantaire nodded, hoping that the movement of his hair would be enough for Enjolras to tell that he had done so. It must have been, for he felt Enjolras’ hand on his shoulder. Carefully at first, clearly afraid to spook him, but soon he began stroking Grantaire’s back. He didn’t say anything, not till Grantaire heard footsteps.

“R?” Enjolras said. “Do you want to walk back home with us?”

Grantaire slowly stood up, keeping his eyes averted. He wasn’t hyperventilating anymore - Enjolras had managed to calm him down enough to avoid an attack - but he still felt ashamed and humiliated. He didn’t want either of them to have seen that. Tough Bahorel, who faced harassment frequently but simply met it with a smart comment or a rock-hard fist, if needed be. And Enjolras, vibrant Enjolras, who really was a brave leader. Not fearless, because fearless meant careless, but courageous enough to seem it at times. To think those two had seen Grantaire so weak… actually, he’d rather not think about it.

As it turned out, Bahorel had only seen the start of it. She’d gone back in to get Grantaire’s coat. Grantaire wondered how: Had Bahorel merely charmed the cloakroom worker or had he somehow gotten the number from Grantaire? Perhaps it had fallen out of his pocket, and Bahorel had picked it up? Grantaire didn’t feel like asking, so he didn’t, but keeping his mind occupied with such triviality kept him from wondering about other things.

Not much was said as they walked, though Grantaire was sure Enjolras wasn’t done with him. Oh how cruel it was, that he should start idealising him again now, so soon after acting on devaluation...

Bahorel got a call and she walked a bit away from them as she talked, but a string of swears were distinctly discernible.

“I have to go,” he said when he got off the phone. “Combeferre got arrested.”

“...no i chuj,” Grantaire swore to himself.

Enjolras stared at Bahorel in shock, and shuffled to get his phone out, probably wondering if he’d be met with a string of missed calls.

“What happened?” Enjolras asked.

Bahorel shook her head.

“Some sort of bullshit that boils down to ‘you’re black so you look suspicious.’”

Grantaire spit on the ground.

“Fucking cops.”

Enjolras voiced his agreement. He was swearing and pacing and quickly clenching and unclenching his fingers in upset stims. Grantaire felt similarly, though he was too deprived of energy to show it outwardly.

“He hasn’t been able to get ahold of Feuilly yet, so…”

“Okay. Okay.” Enjolras said. “You go, hurry; I’ll come as soon as I can. Fuck. Okay.”

Grantaire wanted to protest that it was fine, that Enjolras should go now, but before he knew it Bahorel had nodded and was about to leave, before looking back at the two of them.

“Will you two be okay?”

Bahorel was significantly taller than either of them, and more built than the both of them together. Bahorel was the kind of person most anyone would think twice about attacking, and she knew it. Grantaire and Enjolras, on the other hand… Enjolras was slim and weak-looking and maybe he didn’t quiieeete pass yet. Meanwhile Grantaire, while he didn’t look like much - in more ways than one - did know some mixed martial arts, and though not built, was reasonably strong. He was also, however, incredibly drunk. It was reasonable, Grantaire supposed, for Bahorel to think they would be less safe without him. Not less safe than Combeferre, though.

“We’ll be fine,” Enjolras said. “Go.”

Bahorel nodded, and wasted no time in turning around, running towards the first and the best cab she saw and trying to get its attention. _Dzięki Bogu_ they were somewhere central when Bahorel got that call, Grantaire thought.

 

For Enjolras, the rest of the walk home was spent fretting and worrying and itching to hurry Grantaire. Enjolras wanted to be with Combeferre and he wanted to be there  _ now _ . He wanted to be  _ sure _ nothing happened, he wanted to get him out of there  _ right now _ , he wanted to be sure Combeferre was  _ safe _ . He told himself that Bahorel was quite capable; which he was! In fact, Bahorel knew the law very well, though she’d dropped out, so Combeferre was probably safer in her hands than in Enjolras’.  Still, Enjolras couldn’t help but feel deeply worried and on-edge. 

Enjolras lived closer to the center - a privilege afforded him by the apartment originally being a gift from his parents, just before Enjolras... just before they cut off contact - so that was where they were headed. If they were to walk to Grantaire’s it would have taken much longer, and Enjolras wanted to hurry. 

This had been the plan from the beginning, though; or at least giving Grantaire the choice of sleeping at Enjolras’ had been. Grantaire was clearly not well, and not simply because he was drunk. Enjolras was still angry with him, and they would be having a conversation when… when everything was sorted out with Combeferre, and when Grantaire seemed like he could actually  _ have _ that conversation. But right now he couldn’t, and walking that far, or being on public transport, which Enjolras knew could be sensory hell, would not be good. Better that he sleep at Enjolras’. 

“You can take the bed,” Enjolras said after they’d entered the apartment. 

Grantaire looked about to protest, but Enjolras shook his head. 

“Look, you do what you want, I have to go. Just… if you have to vomit, please try to do so in the bathroom?”

Grantaire looked ready to say something about that, too, but he simply nodded, as he took off his coat. Enjolras clenched his shoulder quickly, before turning on the spot and leaving his apartment behind, taking the stairs in two steps at a time while he typed the number of a taxi company. 

Enjolras bit his nails both while he waited and after getting in the taxi. He wished he’d remembered to grab one of his stim toys before leaving his apartment, but he’d been too stressed to remember much at all. He even feared for a moment he might have forgotten his wallet, but it turned out to just be in another pocket than he used to keep it in. 

He was bouncing his legs impatiently as well until they arrived. After paying the driver, he didn’t wait around for the change, instead he just hurried along.

When he finally reached Combeferre, the first thing he noticed was the stims Combeferre was using. On top of his thighs, his hands moved in continuous motions that could, to someone who didn’t know better, just look like he was clenching his fists, but Enjolras knew that Combeferre was digging his nails into the palms of his hands. He only did that when he was very upset, Enjolras hadn’t seen him do it in years. This was so… how could they just…

Combeferre spotted him and for a moment, his face lit up. But just for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a couple of days after the last chapter
> 
> Bahorel is genderfluid and uses alternating pronouns
> 
> Dzięki Bogu: Thank God 
> 
> No i chuj: And a dick (said when something goes from bad to worse)
> 
> Thanks to [mariuszpontmercy](http://mariuszpontmercy.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for helping me with the Polish in this fic
> 
> When I write R I mean that they’re saying “aire” (as in the French pronunciation of the letter - it’s the Danish pronunciation too, so it seems intuitive to me though ofc I get if it isn’t for other people, hence this note)
> 
> This will update every two weeks (next chapter 31/08)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://holmganga.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Art related to this fic can be found under the tag "taolverse" on my tumblr or on [my deviantart](http://julyborn.deviantart.com/gallery/58213913/Les-Mis)


	3. Chapter 3

Grantaire woke to a throbbing headache, but he often did, so that was no surprise. What was a surprise, however, was finding himself in a bed that wasn’t his own. Not that that was terribly out of the ordinary either, but he didn’t remember meeting anyone and, more importantly, he was wearing most of his clothes. He sat up - slowly and carefully, he’d made the mistake of sitting up too fast far too many times - and looked around. The bedroom was nicely furnished, in a way that contrasted with the the decoration. Most of the pictures on the walls were posters from rallies or the like, though a picture of Marx also adorned one of them, as well as an old map of France. The memories were coming back to Grantaire as he got out of bed - ever so carefully - but even if they weren’t, this could only be one person’s bedroom: Enjolras’. No one else could possibly have a room like this. Grantaire really didn’t believe that could be possible.

He walked towards the door, intending to go check whether Enjolras was home, but his eyes fell on a picture on the dresser. It was a photograph of Les Amis standing outside of the Musain. Grantaire remembered it being taken; it had been about a year ago, judging by Grantaire’s hair length - which was a much more reliable way to judge such a thing than his memory or sense of time.

In the picture, Bahorel was laid down in front of the rest of them, posing like a femme fatale and winking at the camera. Grantaire smiled slightly, before his eyes moved to himself. He was standing next to Bossuet and grinning wildly, while Bossuet had one hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and held Joly’s hand in the other. Joly had been in his wheelchair that day, and on his other side, Musichetta was bending a bit down to do bunny ears behind his head. Closer to the middle of the photo, Enjolras was standing next to Courfeyrac, both of them smiling. Courfeyrac was looking down at Bahorel in amusement, while on Enjolras’ other side, Combeferre...

Combeferre.

Grantaire stormed out of the room, where he found Enjolras sitting on his couch with his laptop and a cup of coffee. He blinked up at Grantaire as he entered, doubtlessly looking wild, with his curly hair everywhere and a desperation he felt sure must ooze off him.

“Is he…?”

“Combeferre is fine,” Enjolras said. “He’s home. Feuilly went with him.”

“Dzięki Bogu,” Grantaire said. He continued muttering in Polish as he sat down on Enjolras’ armchair.

“We’ll look into filing a complaint later,” Enjolras said, “but right now, Combeferre needs to rest.”

“Cieszę się, że Feuilly z nim poszedł,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras eyed him curiously as his string of Polish continued.

Fuck. How could he have forgotten about Combeferre for even a moment? In retrospect, Grantaire was a bit bewildered he hadn’t been more freaked out about the situation. The power of alcohol, he supposed. Shit, Combeferre must have been so freaked out…

But Enjolras seemed calm. Genuinely calm, rather than just having trouble with conveying tone or emotions. And Feuilly had shown up, apparently. That was good. Combeferre was home. That was good. Fuck.

“How many languages do you speak?” Enjolras asked a while after Grantaire had trailed off.

Grantaire blinked, only now realising he hadn’t been speaking French.

“I’m fluent in three; Polish, French and English,” he said with a shrug. “I also know some Hebrew.”

Enjolras nodded thoughtfully.

“I know French, English and Arabic,” he offered. “Though I’m told my Arabic pronunciation is terrible. My Lebanese family speaks French, too, so it’s not like I ever got to practice it.”

“So neither of us is a Pontmercy,” Grantaire commented. “But we’re not Courfeyrac, either. We’re in some sweet, boring spot in the middle.”

Enjolras smiled at that. Courfeyrac was infamously bad at languages. He said the heavy accent helped when flirting in English. Grantaire thought that it was more just that Courfeyrac didn’t need any sort of help, being _Courfeyrac_. The only one of them who could be said to even be _near_ Courfeyrac’s level was Bahorel...

“Bahorel…?”

“She should be on a train right now,” Enjolras said. “He’d wanted a fun night before going home…”

Grantaire shook his head. “Shit,” he muttered.

“It was so ridiculous, R, I…” Enjolras was shaking his head furiously. “To put Combeferre through that… when I arrived, he looked so… it’s despicable; I hate them.”

Grantaire nodded in agreement. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure that there was much he _could_ say. He was somewhat surprised that Enjolras hadn’t ranted further, as he was wont to do, but he supposed he must have tired himself out before Grantaire woke up.

It was quiet between them for a while. Enjolras was typing on his laptop. A quick glance told Grantaire that he was on twitter; doubtlessly ranting there, then.

“You realise we have to talk, right?” Enjolras finally said and closed his laptop.

Grantaire nodded, eyes towards the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and maybe if he said it enough, it would someday be enough.

“Just…” Enjolras sighed and Grantaire was quite sure he detected a bit of annoyance in that sigh. “Explain to me… Why didn’t you hang up the posters?”

Grantaire sighed too. He still didn’t want to actually tell Enjolras, so he didn’t know what to say. He was quiet long enough for Enjolras to speak again.

“You said…” Enjolras hesitated and Grantaire looked up at him. “You sounded like you were still upset about what I said when I asked for your help.”

Grantaire had some trouble recalling what he’d said last night, exactly, but he didn’t doubt that he’d let some of that get out. He’d still been mad at Enjolras that evening, even as they’d went outside and he felt the urge to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness so he wouldn’t be abandoned, he’d still been devaluing Enjolras. Only as Enjolras put a calming hand on his shoulder had it changed, though his overstimulated state had meant he hadn’t felt it in full force. Now, though, for what must be at least the hundredth time he felt an intense need wash over him, a need to please Enjolras, to be loved by him; if one so perfect was to care about Grantaire, it would prove that Grantaire wasn’t entirely useless, after all.

“I’m…” Grantaire sighed. “I’m unreliable, Enjolras, surely you know that by now. I do and don’t do things on impulse, on a whim, and my feelings... are never quite what I want them to be.”

Enjolras seemed unsure what to make of that.

“Was I wrong to come to you in the first place?” he asked, and that hurt, that hurt indescribably.

“Probably,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras was frowning.

“Grantaire, I…”

He pressed his lips together while thinking.

“I’m at a bit of a loss…” he admitted. “I want to… I know I get angry sometimes, and that I phrase things wrong, and that we don’t always get along and that... but I don’t… I would hate for you to think I don’t care; I do.”

_He’s lying. He’s just being polite. He’s trying to keep the peace in the group._

“I… was sorry to see you upset. And if I caused that by pushing you into something, I’m sorry for that, too.”

“You’re not the one who should be apologising!” Grantaire exclaimed. “I’m sorry, I’m awful, I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry about the posters, and about how I acted last night, and… _I’m sorry_.”

Grantaire was aware he sounded pathetic; he was using all his energy to keep back tears.

_Enjolras hates me! Enjolras hates me! Enjolras hates me!_

Grantaire had manipulated him, he must have; how else could it all have become twisted, so that Enjolras was apologising to him? It must be Grantaire’s doing; he must have done something wrong.

Suddenly Grantaire felt a grip on his wrist, and he looked up to see Enjolras on his knees in front of him, their faces level. He’d accidentally met Enjolras’ eyes as he looked up, but quickly turned his eyes down again, away from the deep brown of Enjolras’ intense stare.

“It’s okay,” Enjolras said firmly, surely, like it was an undisputable fact of the universe. “I accept your apology.”

 

  
There was still a definite uncertainty in where Enjolras and Grantaire stood with each other, at least for Enjolras. He didn’t feel like his conversation with Grantaire had cleared things up as much as he’d hoped it would, but at least things were kind of sorted. He had feared that they wouldn’t be; he wouldn’t have know what to do in that scenario.

As it were, Grantaire told him that he’d help out if Enjolras wanted him to. Enjolras had agreed, though with a fair bit more scepticism in his heart than when Grantaire had first said he’d help out. Enjolras felt as if there was something more he ought to do, ought to say, based on what he’d heard Grantaire say at the bar. True, the man had been rambling drunk, but the thought wouldn’t leave Enjolras alone.

He hadn’t had to worry about Grantaire living up to his promise. Enjolras got a snap from him in the middle of the night - he’d felt a pang of guilt; he hadn’t meant for Grantaire to do it at night! - wherein Grantaire was holding a single posters up to the camera while winking at the screen. The text said “Just one left!” and around noon the next day, when Enjolras went to meet up with him at the Café Musain, his route brought him through Grantaire’s area and he could tell that Grantaire had indeed hung up the posters. Not that he’d doubted it; in Enjolras’ experience, Grantaire may say and do many odd things, but he didn’t lie about things that actually mattered.

“So, what’s on the agenda today?” Grantaire said the minute Enjolras sat down across from him. He grinned and raised his mug at Enjolras after he said it, and wow, R really seemed like a whole different person when he was in a good mood.

“Well, there are a few things…” Enjolras said as he sat down. “But, I, erh…”

A memory of Grantaire rolling his eyes as Enjolras looked at his art manifested itself in Enjolras’ head and refused to leave him alone.

“Yeah?”

Enjolras quickly looked up at Grantaire, accidentally meeting his eyes. It didn’t take long for him to avert them again.

“Well, we need some fliers…” He started. “I was wondering if you would help me design them? I’m... not a very visual person.”

He waited with baited breath.

“Oh come on,” Grantaire said teasingly and Enjolras relaxed. “Looking that good must take _some_ work.”

Enjolras felt a faint warmth in his cheeks.

“Yes, well, nevertheless…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll help you out,” Grantaire said as he waved one of his hand in front of him. “What needs to be on it?”

After Enjolras finished explaining what was needed for the flier, he left Grantaire to it, and instead got out his laptop and began updating Les Amis’ record. He added some lines about the strike, the work they’d done for it, and so on, then went right over to updating the expenses; he was relieved to see that they’d managed to stay within the budget this year. There wasn’t much left for the last week - enough for printing the fliers, which he’d made sure of in advance - but not for much else. Not that it mattered much; they weren’t supposed to have any expenses after this, though of course it would have been nice to start the next year with a bit extra. Honestly though, Enjolras was satisfied as long as they didn’t go _over_ budget.

During this work, Grantaire had only talked a couple of times, either for clarification or to get Enjolras’ opinion. It was rare that Enjolras saw a quiet Grantaire who wasn’t also a sullen Grantaire, but when he looked up, that was exactly what he saw. Enjolras had been too concentrated to notice, but at some point Grantaire had put on earphones. As he sketched, he bounced his leg in what might - might not - be the rhythm of the music. Enjolras hadn’t seen him so concentrated since… had Enjolras seen him concentrated like this before? One time, at Joly’s movie night, perhaps? He’d never seen him so concentrated about a task, though, and…

It seemed unlikely that Grantaire would have suddenly found a passion, he’d always denied having; that he’d declared just a week ago that he didn’t have. So, what…?

Grantaire removed an earphone and Enjolras hurried to seem like he hadn’t been staring.

“Pick one,” Grantaire said as he held up two sketches.

Enjolras regarded the two for a bit before pointing at one of them.

“Cool,” Grantaire said. “So that’s the sketch; you need something digital for the actual flier, right?

“Yes; thank you. I’ll make something digital from this later.”

Grantaire lifted an eyebrow, but couldn’t hide a smile.

“Didn’t you just say you weren’t very visual?”

“I’ve done it before.. erh, a few times...” Enjolras said. “I don’t want to put all the work on you.”

Grantaire’s smile faltered a little.

“Because I’m unreliable?” He asked in a tone Enjolras couldn't read.

“Because it would be unfair.”

Grantaire just looked at him for a long moment.

“Despite everything, I am a member of Les Amis, am I not?” He said. “I’m usually the one doing next to nothing; it wouldn’t be unfair if I did a bit more, just this once.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“I am.”

“It needs to be done the day after tomorrow,” Enjolras said. “The 26th.”

“Got it,” Grantaire said and promptly wrote it down on the back of his sketch.

 

 

“It’s Christmas Eve today, you know…” Enjolras said.

Grantaire regarded the street decorations that were everywhere around them.

“Really?” Grantaire snarked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

It was quite usual for Grantaire not to know the date, actually. His sense of time had always been a bit warped, something which had only become worse these last few years. At this time of year though… It was hard to miss.

“You hadn’t…?” Enjolras began earnestly but then stopped himself and looked at the ground in embarrassment.

_Okay, that’s adorable._

_Sad, too, because, well,_ ableism. _But adorable nonetheless._

Grantaire was aware he idealised Enjolras. He knew it and he knew it was unhealthy and bad and unfair and… not what you were supposed to do. He knew it was why he all too often lashed out at Enjolras, too, because rarely had Grantaire had a Favourite Person whom he didn’t split on. He knew he should be working on that. He... he knew all of that.

He also knew he was in love with Enjolras.

It was hard to tell, sometimes. Very hard. But he knew that - even though that was unfair, too - it was the truth.

“Combeferre wants to meet up with Feuilly after he’s off work and go eat some shawarma or something…” Enjolras said. “You can come too, if you want.”

Grantaire’s brain was screaming at him that Enjolras was just being polite, that surely the most serious, passionate people in the whole group - well, sans Courfeyrac - wouldn’t want to spend their evening with the nihilistic clown Joly and Bossuet had picked up somewhere?

And… well. Rationally, Grantaire doubted that was the case, but he believed his brain nonetheless. He just didn’t care; he wanted to be near Enjolras, to be talked to and looked at by Enjolras, to reap all the happiness he could from this before things turned around again. So he said yes.

“Well, I’ll see you later then,” Enjolras said. “Thanks for all your help.”

Then Enjolras initiated faire la bise.

Force of habit made Grantaire follow along as easily as if he’d expected it, but he was a bit surprised. It wasn’t that it was unusual for them in and of itself, but the way Enjolras had freely initiated it rather than how the two of them usually looked at each other a bit unsurely before doing it... that part was surprising.

“See you,” Enjolras said and smiled at him as he walked off and Grantaire couldn’t remember feeling so happy and so desperate and so unbearably needy in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cieszę się, że Feuilly z nim poszedł: I’m glad Feuilly went with him (thanks again to mariuszpontmercy!)
> 
> faire la bise is the cheek kissing greeting. the internet told me that it’s pretty common, much more so than hugs. sorry if that’s inaccurate, or indeed if any part of what I did with it doesn’t ring true.
> 
> Next chapter 14/09


	4. Chapter 4

Combeferre was a man who could keep his calm like no-one else Enjolras knew. The arrest had shaken him, he’d said as much, but less that 40 hours after, there wasn’t much in his behaviour suggesting so.

All the members of Les Amis had been arrested before, of course. They’d rarely been arrested alone though - most of the arrests were protest related, after all - and even rarer was it for no friend to be present when the arrest happened. To Enjolras’ knowledge, he was the only other to have experienced the latter, and, well, Enjolras wasn’t black.

Even on the night, Combeferre must have seemed outwardly calm to people who didn’t know him the way Enjolras did. He had been scared though, of course he had been. “I was so relieved when you arrived,” he’d told Bahorel in the cab home and before Enjolras got off, Combeferre had disentangled himself from Feuilly and hugged Enjolras like he hadn’t hugged him since they were both weird, lonely kids with no other friends. 

Today, though, things were pretty normal. 

“I swear to God Enjolras if you don’t stop, I’m going to tell Feuilly about the crush you had on him two years ago.”

“I - It wasn’t a crush!” Enjolras protested.

Combeferre gave him a Look.

“I listened to you talk about how much you admire him for over an hour.”

“I was drunk!” Enjolras protested. “As if you haven’t rambled about him more to me!” 

“That proves nothing; he’s my datemate!” Combeferre exclaimed with an incredulous laugh. “If anything, that supports my argument!” 

“I… well… that is…” 

Enjolras was mercifully saved from having to say anymore on the subject by the appearance of Grantaire. He looked different from earlier; he’d made his hair into a bun sitting high on his head, and it looked like he’d brushed it first. He’d shaved, too; it’d been a  _ long _ time since Enjolras had last seen him clean shaven. 

“I’m almost done with the fliers,” he declared after they’d greeted each other. 

“Already?” Enjolras said. 

“Yeah, I... had a spark of inspiration, I guess.”

“That’s great!” Enjolras said earnestly. It really seemed like Grantaire was feeling much better today!

He could feel Combeferre looking at him, but ignored the sensation, and Combeferre turned his gaze to his wristwatch instead. 

“Feuilly probably won’t be off for another 10 minutes; his boss always keeps him a biiittt longer than he pays him for,” Combeferre said with disgust.

“Asshole,” Grantaire said as he lit a cigarette.

Enjolras added something about capitalist exploitation and suddenly he and Combeferre were in a passionate conversation about worker’s rights and surplus value - Grantaire added a comment now and then, but neither fully participated nor ridiculed them - and before they knew it, Feuilly was standing in front of them. Their conversation stopped abruptly as Combeferre went to kiss his datemate. 

“Well, let’s get going then,” Feuilly said after the kiss and started walking. 

Combeferre followed right after him, the two quickly getting deep in conversation as they walked side by side, leading the way. Enjolras was left walking next to Grantaire, who already seemed much more tired than when he’d arrived. 

“You alright?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire looked up at him in surprise. 

“Yeah,” he said with a small smile. “Just a bit tired, is all.” 

“That makes sense if you’ve been working on the fliers until now.” 

“What, sitting on my ass by computer explains why I’m tired?” Grantaire asked wryly. 

There was a lot of things Enjolras could have said to that. He could have told Grantaire how happy he was to see him motivated, though he was afraid that might come off wrong; he was happy for Grantaire’s sake, not because of the work he’d done for Enjolras. He could have told him how impressed he was with Grantaire’s artistic abilities, how he’d never dream to devalue such work and how he wished Grantaire wouldn’t either. He could have found some way of expressing that he was proud of Grantaire. 

“You’ve worked hard today,” he merely said. 

The corner of Grantaire’s mouth twitched up in what wasn’t quite a smile.

 

Grantaire had spent all evening sneaking glances of Enjolras. He did that, sometimes, this wasn’t a first… but how often his eyes seemed to meet Enjolras’ was. Enjolras liked him better, now, that much was clear. Much as his brain didn’t like to admit it, it was quite clearly true. 

_ It won’t last, though _ , the blasted thing told him, _ men like him are not meant for men like you _ . 

He made a face and decided to try and distract himself from such thoughts, and that was when he realised he’d completely zoned out from the conversation at the table. 

The four of them were sitting at a plastic table in the corner of the shawarma place, each chewing away at their food. They’d been there for quite a while; Feuilly was almost done with his dürüm. Grantaire looked down at his own, realising that not only had he forgotten to follow the conversation, he’d kind of forgotten about the whole eating thing, too.  _ Amazing. _

“He can’t have been serious,” Enjolras groaned.

Grantaire contemplated whether it was worth it to ask who, but it turned out to be unnecessary. 

“It’s Courfeyrac, what do you expect,” Combeferre said with a shake of the head and a fond smile. 

“I expect him not to scare Cosette’s father completely off, that’s what,” he said. 

“Since when do you care about what Cosette’s father thinks?” Grantaire asked with a chuckle. “Besides, didn’t he more or less pay for  _ all  _ of Pontmercy’s surgery? Courfeyrac may manage to create  trouble for himself, somehow, but for Théa and Cosette? Not a chance.” 

“That’s a fair point,” Feuilly said. 

Enjolras shrugged and made a face that said “I suppose” and then concentrated on his food. 

“Speaking of Théa Pontmercy…” Combeferre said, looking pointedly at Feuilly. 

“Oh, right!” Feuilly said. “By the way, Grantaire, I was wondering if you could - or if you know someone who could - help me a bit with Polish?”

“You’re learning Polish?” 

“I’ve recently found out my father was Polish, so…” Feuilly shrugged a bit. “I’m intermediate in Arabic now, and, well, I’d like to reconnect with my dad’s culture too, so I’d like to learn some Polish.”

“That’s great!” Grantaire said with a smile. “I’d be a poor teacher, but I have a friend - Floréal, is her name, she’s amazing - who really likes that sort of thing. Remind me to ask her about it and I totally will.” 

“Cool, thanks!” Feuilly said. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you mention - was it Floréal? - before.”

“Oh, I have - just not by name.” 

Grantaire was grinning. 

“Wait, is she…?"

“Sure is.”

Grantaire laughed heartedly, as did Feuilly. Combeferre and Enjolras met each other's eyes in mutual confusion. Noticing their confusion, Grantaire turned to them, and fought through his laughter to tell them:

“She’s dated a lot of awful people, right? So I’m always a bit suspicious of the people she dates - hell, even of her taste in general, I made the mistake of going home with a guy she pointed out to me once and booyyy….” 

Grantaire had to stop to laugh. 

“Anyway, she’s had an awful lot of shitty boyfriends and a couple of shitty girlfriends and whenever I point it out to her she just responds with these  _ amazing  _ remarks… One time she called me ‘a ludicrous example of what happens when you leave a shovel to its own devices’ it was amazing. I love her.”

Feuilly had been laughing almost as much as Grantaire throughout his explanation; Grantaire had previously regaled Feuilly with a portion of Floréal’s best remarks, and Grantaire imagined that those were replaying in his head as he was reminded of her.

“I look forward to meeting her,” he said as he shook his head in amazement. 

Combeferre had been looking at Grantaire for a while now, clearly just about to say something, but stopping himself for some reason. Grantaire met his eyes and raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes?” He asked. 

Combeferre adjusted his glasses to allow him to look away. 

“Oh I was just trying to figure out…. It’s really not important.”

“Come now,” Grantaire said with a grin. “Whatever it is, you know I won’t be offended.”

Combeferre seemed about to protest, but then he just shrugged. 

“I was just wondering if you’re sleeping with her,” he said, adjusting his glasses again. 

That wasn’t what Grantaire had expected it to be, and clearly no-one else had expected that, either. Feuilly raised an eyebrow, clearly bemused at his boyfriend and Enjolras gave Combeferre a look. 

“Really?” Enjolras muttered. 

Combeferre just shrugged again. 

“I’m not,” Grantaire said. “I mean we  _ have  _ slept together, past tense, but... “ 

Grantaire shrugged too. 

“Cool,” Combeferre said and returned to his food. “I was just curious.” 

“I figured,” Grantaire replied, and the thing was,  he actually did believe Combeferre. 

Combeferre had this incredibly, well,  _ Ravenclaw _ quality of genuinely, sincerely, being _ just curious _ . He frequently wanted to know things just for the sake of satisfying that curiosity. Had it been anyone else asking him such a question, sans maybe Feuilly who, partially shared that trait with his boyfriend, Grantaire would have been certain they were judging him or judging Floréal or constructing an incorrect idea of what their relationship was like. Combeferre, though? Combeferre waited for the facts. 

“You said she’s really into this sort of thing, is she a language student like Théa?” Feuilly asked after a beat.

“Kind of,” Grantaire said. “She studies French, but she talks about Polish stuff a lot. Hell, she’s probably half the reason I’m still fluent at this point.”

“You don’t use it a lot?” Enjolras asked with a slight frown.  

“I don’t have a lot of opportunities to,” Grantaire said. “I have a few other Polish friends, but we usually just speak French, and my family can go fuck itself, so… that just leaves Floréal.” 

“We tend to end up speaking Soninke or a mix of that and French whenever I’m with my Soninke friends,” Combeferre said. “I wonder why it’s different.”

“I don’t know, man…” Grantaire said. “I guess it’s so revealing, if you’re white and speak fluent French? I mean people fucking hate immigrants, but it’s not like they can tell you’re Polish, unless you’re speaking it, you know… I mean, doesn’t really benefit  _ me  _ much, but then, I’d be  _ as _ fucked in Poland.”

He shrugged and took a bite of his dürüm. The silence that followed was only somewhat awkward. 

“That makes sense, I suppose…” Combeferre said, clearly in thought.

It took another moment of silence before anyone said anything.

“I can’t believe I never asked, what is Soninke like, as a language?” Feuilly asked. 

Combeferre looked excited and moved to face his datemate

“Well it’s a Mande language, to start, and it’s…” he began, and he spared no detail in explaining about his language. 

Feuilly was clearly genuinely interested; the two of them really fit together so well, didn’t they? 

Grantaire couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous.

 

Enjolras look from one restroom to the other. He was nailed to the spot. After leaving the fast food place, they’d walked vaguely in the direction of Combeferre’s flat for a while, when Enjolras suddenly had to pee really badly. They’d found a MacDonald’s and Enjolras had sought out the toilets in such a rush that he’d forgotten to consider… which restroom to use. He had hoped the place would be almost empty, what with it being Christmas Eve and all, but there were people around and he…. wasn’t sure he felt safe using the men’s room, and he most certainly did not feel okay about using the lady’s room. He made a face. Did he pass right now? God, he need to pee so badly. 

“Hey,” he heard behind him.

He turned around in shock, but it was only Grantaire. 

“I needed to pee as well, so….”

Grantaire trailed off, looked quickly from one door to the other, then back at Enjolras with a knowing look. He walked the last few steps over to Enjolras.

“Just keep close to me,” he said quietly and went into the men’s room. 

Enjolras did as he said. He couldn’t help but be on guard, even with Grantaire right there with him. When they got in there, Enjolras almost left again on the spot when he saw two strangers washing their hands. Instead, he hurried into a stall and did his business as quickly as he could manage. 

He waited till he heard the door open before he left the stall, and when he got out of there, Grantaire was the only other person in the room. He gave Enjolras a lazy smile and Enjolras felt a surge of affection for him. 

He washed his hands quickly, still a bit nervous about someone walking in and questioning his presence there, and left the restroom with Grantaire on his heels. Neither of them said anything till they were halfway down the stairs.

“Wait, do you…. “ 

Enjolras stopped himself in embarrassment. He couldn’t ask Grantaire that! It was no of Enjolras’ business! What did it matter, anyway? 

“What?” Grantaire asked. 

“Oh, it’s nothing…”

“Come oooonnn, you’ve made me curious now!”

Enjolras still hesitated.

“Hey, like I told Combeferre, you know I won't be offended,” Grantaire joked.

“How did you use the urinal?” Enjolras finally blurted out. Thankfully in something barely above a whisper, considering where they were.

“Oh,” Grantaire said, looking somewhere between surprised and amused. 

They stepped off the stairs. 

“Well, I didn’t actually have to pee, I just thought… well, I just thought you might appreciate some company, is all.”

Now Grantaire looked embarrassed, but Enjolras couldn’t fathom why. Enjolras was grateful to him for helping him out, and he was reminded of how much they had in common, how many experiences they shared, that neither of the shared with any of the other Les Amis. Well, Bahorel, Prouvaire and Pontmercy  had experiences similar to theirs, but Enjolras and Grantaire had the unique advantage among them of having experiences that inherently had very strong similarities. 

“I did,” Enjolras said as they stepped outside. “I did appreciate it.” 

He didn’t say ‘thank you’ outright, but he hoped that was close enough. Grantaire still wouldn’t meet his eyes, but he smiled shyly. It was such an unusual expression on him, as shyness was a rare quality of anything Grantaire did, but there it was, nonetheless. He looked so pretty like that. 

“I’ve been meaning to say…” 

Grantaire looked up at him. 

“You look very lovely tonight, R.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thats rlly gay enjolras
> 
> “La pelle se moque du fourgon” (The shovel mocks the poker) is a French saying like “the pot calling the kettle black” and that was what Floréal was referencing. 
> 
> Feuilly is agender (hence “datemate”). He uses he/him mostly because that’s what he’s used to. Also, gender neutral language is, as far as I understand, quite a hassle in French. Feuilly doesn’t give two shits about gender so he’d rather just. Not use time thinking about it. 
> 
> Pontmercy is a trans woman, she’s a bi girl and Cosette and Éponine are lesbians (unsure if they will have any real presence in the fic, but yeah, they're all wlw in this verse).
> 
> Next chapter 28/9


	5. Chapter 5

_You look very lovely tonight, R_

_You look very lovely tonight, R_

_You look very lovely tonight, R_

The words kept playing on repeat in Grantaire’s brain for the rest of the evening and night, and the day after, too. He’d made an effort to look nice, that day. Quite on impulse, of course, but he had made an effort, and to think that Enjolras had noticed…! A small part of him was whispering that Enjolras didn’t actually think so, he was just trying to be nice, but even if that was the case…. Enjolras was trying to be nice to him!

He spend a lot of time looking at Enjolras’ social media that day, even though he knew they were meeting up the day after tomorrow. He finished his work on the fliers pretty quickly, feeling motivated about anything that was Enjolras-related and unable to focus on anything that wasn’t.

He send the files with flier designs to Enjolras in the afternoon, and he kept obsessively checking for a reply until he finally got one in the evening.

_Thank you! :) I’ll get these printed tomorrow, then we can start distributing them the day after. They look great!!_

Grantaire smiled.

_np glad u like them_

He wasn’t sure if Enjolras was going to write back. The original message hadn’t seemed like an invitation to chat, after all, but soon enough he heard a ping.

_I really do! Much better than what I could have done!_

_Thank you again_

Oh man… The Validation™… and from Enjolras, at that.

Grantaire would have liked to move into a casual chat from there on, but found himself unsure how to steer the conversation in such a way. Enjolras seemed determined to stay on topic, anyway, so when they began planning when and where to meet up on the day after tomorrow, he’d already resigned himself to it. So much for his intentions to find some kind of ease with Enjolras over text.

He couldn’t help but feel that it was intentional, that Enjolras didn’t really want to chat with him. Of course Enjolras might be busy - to be honest, this was Enjolras, so he _probably was_ \- but it still felt like rejection to Grantaire. The positive attention Enjolras had given him at the start of their conversation made up for most of it, but still he couldn’t help but feel the sting of it, just a little.

He spend the rest of the day and the day after that unable to stop obsessing over Enjolras. He didn’t contact him, but again he spend a lot of time on Enjolras’ social media, and he couldn’t stop himself from writing Floréal to whine about it.

 

 **From:**  FloREAL

R youve been hung up on this guy for ages just flirt harder (lol) ur not usually shy like this??? just get in there you loser

 

...Grantaire didn’t know what he’d expected.

He wrote Bossuet, too, although he didn’t mention Enjolras  to him, rather, he wanted to hear about how Bossuet and Musichetta were finding their first time celebrating Christmas.

 **[20:07] R:** are u feeling the famous christmas spirit

 **[20:07] TR8R:** im feeling something alright

 **[20:07] TR8R:** that something is “out of place”

 **[20:08] R:** lol u can do it i believ in u

 **[20:12] TR8R:** R we’ve been here for five days and his aunt still keeps asking if  “our religion allows for” w/e the hell we’re doing i’m

 **[20:12] TR8R:** and she keeps asking about chetta’s hijab

 **[20:15] R:** ur stronger than me bossuet i would have left already

 **[20:16] TR8R:** lol u wouldn’t have gone in the first place

 **[20:16] R:** for jolllly’s sake? sure i would

 **[20:17] R:** wouldnt have stayd tho

 **[20:21] TR8R:** well we’re here for his sake all the way thru ^^

 **[20:23] R:** like i said ur stronger than me :’)

 **[20:25] TR8R:** nah it’s not so bad rlly though

 **[20:26] R:** u sure?

 **[20:28] TR8R:** i mean joly and musichetta are here

 **[20:28] R:** thas gay

 **[20:28] TR8R:** you can talk

 **[20:29] R:** damn tru

 **[20:32] TR8R:** ....wtf

 **[20:32] R:** u ok lol

 **[20:32] TR8R:** ask me when i get back this is too surreal

 **[20:34] TR8R:** gtg stay safe i love you

 **[20:34] R:** thas gay

Bossuet didn’t reply after that and soon enough Grantaire found himself outside and on his way… somewhere. He knew the city so well because he rarely kept one goal in mind, preferring to instead go with his gut. He was quite aware, however, that he was probably going to end up at a bar. He remembered, faintly, that it was the 26th, which meant that the bars would still be Christmassy as shit, but that was just a minor annoyance, really. The thought that Enjolras would probably disapprove of this was a much stronger one, and probably the one that led him to walk past several bars without going inside.

He kept walking in what he thought was an aimless manner, but when his eyes fell on the café Musichetta had worked at since a year or so ago, he realised that he’d been walking in the direction of Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s apartment. It had to be because he’d just been speaking to Bossuet… damn overly associative brain of his.

He was just about to change his direction to walk towards the center of the city, when he spotted Feuilly. He almost didn’t see him, as Feuilly had the hood of his winter coat raised, obscuring his otherwise very recognisable curly, auburn hair, but Grantaire just happened to be looking in the right direction as Feuilly was crossing the street. He didn’t want to yell, so he ran to reach Feuilly instead.

“Hey,” he said breathlessly when he stopped a meter from Feuilly.

Feuilly turned to look at him, eyebrows raising in surprise when he saw who it was.

“Grantaire,” he said as he looked him over. “What are you doing here?”

Grantaire, who was struggling to regain control over his breathing, shrugged.

“Just out for a bit of a walk, really.”

Feuilly smiled and they kissed each other’s cheeks and exchanged a few pleasantries and then Feuilly started walking again and Grantaire fell into step with him.

It turned out Feuilly was on his way home. He’d just been to Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s apartment to bring up their post and water their plants and the like. Despite himself, Grantaire felt indignant that it should be Feuilly who’d been entrusted with their apartment, and not himself. Rationally, he understood why it made sense; Feuilly lived closer than him and he was a close friend of Musichetta’s, who’d probably been the one planning for when they were gone. It still seemed like a slap in the face to Grantaire, though. Aside from each other and Musichetta, _he_ was supposed to be Joly and Bossuet’s closest friend!

With that bitterness in mind, he couldn’t help but be a bit annoyed at Feuilly. He might not have noticed under other circumstances, but Feuilly was clearly checking to see if he was drunk. He was subtle about it, of course, but being already embittered, Grantaire noticed the way Feuilly seized up his walk. He was trying not to lash out on Feuilly for it, but _God_...

He took out his cigarette pack and proceeded to light one.

“Want one?” He asked Feuilly after taking the first drag of his own.

“No thanks,” Feuilly said. “I’m trying to stop.”

“Again?”

“They say it takes a few tries for it to stick, so…”

Feuilly was eyeing his cigarette. Shit. He probably shouldn’t have lit one in front of him, should he? But it wasn’t like Grantaire knew he was trying to stop!

“Well, I should probably get going, anyway…” Grantaire said.

“Oh, if you’re sure…” Feuilly said hesitantly. “You could come up for a cup of coffee, though, we’re almost at my flat.”

“Nah,” Grantaire said before taking a long drag of his cigarette. “I feel like getting hammered.”

The sentence had the desired effect; Feuilly’s eyes went somewhat wide and he scrambled for something to say.

“R, maybe you shouldn’t…” he began, but Grantaire interrupted him.

“I’ll do what I want,” he said, and he said it in such a way that he couldn’t have said “fuck you” much clearer without actually using those words.

Despite Feuilly calling his name, Grantaire just turned around and started walking.

When Feuilly didn’t attempt to catch up to him, Grantaire knew he’d made the right choice.  

 

“Please tell me you weren’t seriously involving yourself in Valjean’s personal affairs,” Enjolras sighed down his phone.

“I just gave him a few tips!” Courfeyrac protested from the other end of the line.

Enjolras groaned.

“He took it really well, actually,” Courfeyrac said. “I told him he was going about his new friend the wrong way, and when I explained why, he agreed with me!”

“You’re sure he wasn’t just being polite to his daughter’s friend?”

“He called me a very insightful young man,” Courfeyrac said with a huff. “He said I have a lot of emotional intelligence.”

Enjolras shook his head even though Courfeyrac wouldn’t be able to see it.

“Unbelievable,” he said.

“Anyway, I only visited for a day, I spent the rest of the time with my own family. They asked about you, you know!”

Enjolras sat down at his couch with a sigh and a knot in his stomach.

“I still don’t understand why you won’t spend Christmas at my house,” Courfeyrac said.  “I mean I know there are a lot of things to be done, I understand that, but...”

“It’s not just that,” Enjolras said. “It’s…. your parents live too close to mine. I’d… it’d feel weird.”

The line was quiet for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac said.

“It’s fine,” Enjolras said. “I’m not really religious, anyway, and even if I was, Maronite is pretty different from Protestant…”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac said and hesitated for a moment.

“Yeah, you probably wouldn’t like half this stuff, anyway. Christmas is so comercialised, you know?” Courfeyrac continued, with renewed gusto. “A lot of Christmas stuff is _really_ capitalist, ironically enough… you know, ironically, with how Jesus was basically a socialist and it’s his birth we’re celebrating and all that, it’s really quite…”

Courfeyrac continued in that vein for a while, and soon the awkward pause was forgotten.

“So how are things going with the strike?” Courfeyrac asked. “You got Grantaire on-board, right?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said. “He’s been a big help, actually.

“Oh, that’s great!” Courfeyrac said. He sounded genuinely happy about it, but more so, he sounded surprised.

“He seems sort of… different,” Enjolras said.

“Different?” Courfeyrac asked, clearly puzzled. “It’s not like R is the most consistent guy.”

“I don’t know, really, he just seems more… motivated.”

“Well, motivated, that is different, I’ll give you that…”

“I don’t know, I guess I just never spend much time alone with him before…”

Enjolras trailed off.

Courfeyrac chuckled at him.

“Well, I’ve spend more time with him than you, so I guess I’ll have to be the judge of whether he’s _different_ , once I come back.”

Handing out fliers with Enjolras went better than Grantaire had expected. Grantaire had been a bit late, and the Métro trip had been horrific due to how crowded their train had been, but the actual handing out fliers had been surprisingly okay. Grantaire had been excited to meet up with Enjolras, and had listened to his near-lecture on the strike with more concentration than he usually paid to anything he wasn’t genuinely really interested in. He’d had really mixed feelings about this day; he’d been looking forward to spending time with Enjolras, very much so, but he’d kind of dreaded handing out the fliers.

For some reason, Grantaire had an easy time telling native from tourist, and as far as he knew, he hadn’t presented the fliers to anyone who wasn’t French. Enjolras accidentally did that, once or twice, but then, Enjolras could actually answer all the questions some of these people had, while Grantaire flailed to remember what Enjolras had told him, and to present it in a way that was reflective of Les Amis’ philosophy rather than of his own.

A particularly interested woman approached him, and in the end, Grantaire shot a look at Enjolras and - seeing that he wasn’t preoccupied - sent the woman to him instead. It seemed the better solution, and Enjolras didn’t look like he minded. Actually, he looked excited to talk to someone who was so interested. Grantaire suppressed a small smile and started handing out fliers again. He attempted to hand one to a man walking past, but he was met by a sneer:

“Go away, jew.”

Grantaire felt himself tense as his heart began to beat faster. He wanted to do something, say something, but the moment passed without him giving any real reaction. The man was already a few meters further down the street, before Grantaire got any words out.

“Charming,” he muttered.

He felt himself relax ever so slightly as the man’s back got smaller and smaller.

“Are you alright?” He heard from next to him, and there was Enjolras at his side.

“Splendid,” Grantaire said tiredly.

“Maybe we should call it a day,” Enjolras said after shooting a look down at the man.

“Nah, let's just stay a while longer,” Grantaire said.

He didn’t want some asshole to have the power to force him off the street, he didn’t want his abuse to have _worked_.

Enjolras looked at him for a moment, distressed on his behalf, but then he seemed to understand, as he nodded and went back to handing out fliers.

About a half hour later, he turned to Grantaire again

“We’ve been out here a really long time... ” Enjolras began. “We could go get some coffee at my place if you want.”

“Sure,” Grantaire said. “That’d be nice.“

 

“First Lesgles, then Combeferre, now this…” Enjolras said as he sat down next to Grantaire and handed him a cup of coffee. “France is so full of fucked up people.”

Grantaire snorted.

“Not like that’s anything new,” he said, the paused to take a sip of his coffee. “What have I been telling you? The world is awful and there’s no changing that.”

Enjolras bit down a retort and sighed instead. He didn’t agree, of course, but he wasn’t going to argue with Grantaire right now. Grantaire was entitled to feel however he wanted about this, and if he needed to vent right now, Enjolras would let him. Grantaire didn’t say anything more, though, and the two just drank their coffee in silence.

Grantaire was partially right, of course; it had always been like this. Lesgles had always gotten “terrorist” comments, as had Musichetta and Feuilly - hell, even Enjolras himself had heard it, though with much less frequency. The reason he mentioned Lesgles in particular was due to a recent incident where Grantaire broke a guy's nose for bothering Lesgles. To Enjolras’ knowledge, Combeferre hadn’t experienced that exact abuse - despite him, unlike Enjolras,  being Muslim - but he’d experienced _plenty_ of other sorts. With the boost in such abuse towards Lesgles, Musichetta and Feuilly following the attack last month, and Combeferre getting arrested on bullshit charges, and now Grantaire getting yelled at in the street… It was all so much, in such a short amount of time. Enjolras understood why Grantaire felt as he did, now more than ever, but Enjolras knew that the only way for things to change was if someone _made_ them change.

Les Amis de l’ABC was going to make them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not Jewish, but Grantaire's experience here is based on something that happened to a friend of mine. Not Muslim either, or black, etc. If I fuck up in any of my mentions of racism, please tell me so. 
> 
> “The attack” refers to the Paris Attack. This story so far takes place in December 2015, so I felt I had to acknowledge it, but I probably won’t mention it again. 
> 
> Bossuet's name is set as TR8R because Grantaire saw TFA with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta right before they left and memes. Grantaire is very close to spliting on them now though.... and he's def split on Feuilly.... oh the joys of borderline...
> 
> This chapter is a bit late bc I've been sick and reading it through to check whether it was alright has been? ??? ?? And unrelated, but I'm not setting a date for the next chapter rn since I don't feel I can promise it would be on time. I'll endeavour to get it done close to my usual schedule though.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for thoughts of self harming this chapter.

They kept handing out fliers the following few days, but no-one bothered them.

Well, a drunk man did yell incomprehensibly at them for a little while, but Grantaire just went over to him and talked to him normally for a bit, and it turned out the guy had lost his wallet and couldn’t remember the way home so Grantaire - having been there himself - gave the guy some of his pocket money and helped him get to the nearby bus stop.

But his point was there were no anti-semites or any other types of bigots involved. It was peaceful in that sense.

Grantaire and Enjolras had a pretty good time together, those few days, and despite how he’d kind of dreaded doing this, Grantaire found himself a bit disappointed that they weren’t going to anymore, if only because that would be the end of his excuse to be around Enjolras.

Courfeyrac got home on the last day Grantaire and Enjolras spent together, and he, together with Combeferre, would be dealing with the fliers for the remainder of the time. He even showed up on their last day, grinning at them as he walked down the street.

“It was on the way,” he said, and the moment those word were out of his mouth, Enjolras walked up to him.

“No it wasn’t,” Enjolras told him, but he was smiling.

“Yeah, I guess it’s a bit of a detour,” he said. “Worth it, though.”

Then he and Enjolras kissed each other’s cheeks after which Courfeyrac put an arm over Enjolras shoulder.

“Hey R, looking good,” Courfeyrac said. “Thanks for helping this one out.”

He ruffled Enjolras’ hair and was met with token protests. Man, it was like he fancied himself Enjolras’ big brother or something. And thanks for helping Enjolras out? Wasn’t Enjolras much Grantaire’s friend as Courfeyrac’s? What kind of phrasing was that?

“Well, we all have to try and save the world at some point, don’t we?” Grantaire replied drily.

Courfeyrac just shook his head a bit in bemusement, then he and Grantaire kissed each other’s cheeks as well and the three of them looked at each other.

“So, should I leave you to it or…?” Courfeyrac asked.

“I think we’re about done for today, actually,” Enjolras said after taking a look at his phone.

“Brilliant,” Courfeyrac said with a big smile. “I feel like going to a café. Do you guys feel like going to a café? Let’s go to a café.”

_I do_ , Grantaire thought sullenly, _just not with you._

The thought of spending an hour or more feeling like a tagalong did _not_ sound appealing, not in the least. And the way Courfeyrac had been acting thus far, there was no way Grantaire would feel like anything else.

“Actually, I think I should head home,” Grantaire said. “I have, erh, I have a commission I should really be working on and…”

“You do commissions?” Enjolras asked. “That’s amazing, I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, amazing what people will throw money after, am I right?” Grantaire said as he fumbled with his lighter and a cigarette.

Enjolras frowned in confusion.

“That’s not what I…”

“I know,” Grantaire said and sighed. “Look, I’ll see you guys around, alright?”

They said their _see you_ ’s to his back as he walked towards the métro. He held up a hand in a slight wave as a goodbye, but didn’t even turn to look at them. How could he, when he knew they'd be happier together without him there.

Yet again, no-one followed Grantaire, and yet again, Grantaire took it as proof he’d made the right choice.

  


“He is a bit different, I suppose,” Courfeyrac said as they watched Grantaire leave.

“I mean, again, not the most consistent guy, so bit hard to say, but…” Courfeyrac shrugged. “I get why you think so.”

Enjolras was only halfway listening to his friend. His attention was otherwise occupied by the figure walking away from them, and he frowned as he stared after him.

“I worry about him,” Enjolras admitted.

“Don’t we all?” Courfeyrac sighed.

Enjolras wanted to argue that, to explain that his worry was more concrete now than the vague sense of worry he’d felt before all of this. They did all worry, that was true, but it was in the same way they all worried about how often Jehan got his heart broken or Combeferre’s tendency to forego sleep, not this very concrete, active worry that Enjolras was feeling for Grantaire now.

Maybe Courfeyrac was right, though; maybe they did all worry to such an extent, and Enjolras had been the only one who had been oblivious…

If that was true, what did that say about Enjolras?

  


Grantaire wasn’t exactly on the top of his game when he got home, and when idleness led him to check his snapchat, what he found there only made him feel worse. Which he could have predicted, of course, if he’d cared to think.... Maybe the self-destructive part of him had indeed been aware of it, and had urged him towards the pain as it usually did. It certainly wouldn’t be surprising.

Neither Courfeyrac nor Enjolras had sent him any snaps, but their stories more than made up for that. They were filled with pictures of each other, of Courfeyrac posing with every little thing they came across, of their orders at the café, of meeting up with Combeferre after that, of a video where Enjolras and Combeferre were arguing about Pokémon while a laughing Courfeyrac filmed it; of the three of them being good, close friends, who loved each other and had fun together.

Of prove that Grantaire meant very little to Enjolras, in the grand scheme of things.

Grantaire gritted his teeth roughly and swallowed. Fuck, this made him feel like shit. Why did he do this to himself?! Why did he have to….. Why was he so goddamn self destructive… Why couldn’t he just...

His phone buzzed.

**From:** Jolllllllllly

We’re going home tomorrow R you lovable memer!!!! packing rn!!!! looking forward to seeing you :D !!!!!! 

Normally Grantaire deeply appreciated Joly sending him such messages, and sometimes they could even improve his mood instantaneously, but right now… As much as he knew it wasn’t, he couldn’t help but read it as sarcastic. Joly and Bossuet liked Feuilly better, didn’t they? Writing Grantaire was just a chore they’d become stuck with.

Grantaire pocketed his phone and went to sit at his computer.

The thought of Enjolras kept plaguing him. He couldn’t get it out of his head. He’d closed snapchat with his phone, of course, but soon he found himself checking the other social media he had any of les amis on his pc, feeling worse and worse as he kept seeing prove of the time they’d spend having fun together.

And there it was, as predicted. That familiar suicidal feeling, that urge to self harm, to punish himself, to make himself forget, to gain attention… Grantaire wasn’t sure which of them it was but man…. he really, really wanted to hurt himself right now. He really needed…. Well, physically hurt himself; looking through Enjolras’ social media had been it’s own sort of masochistic endeavour. Was that a correct use of maochistic? Grantaire decided he didn’t care. He’d….  He knew it would make him feel this way, and yet….

He needed a drink.

Grantaire left his computer to go get his vodka. He took a large swig of the bottle. A bit of it ran down his mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand before taking another swig. Then his phone buzzed again.

**From:** Jolllllllllly

come eat junk food w/ us tomorrow :^) !!!!!!

Grantaire just rolled his eyes and left his phone on the counter as he walked towards his living room while taking his third swig of the vodka bottle.

 

 

It was not entirely unusual for Courfeyrac’s apartment to be filled with glitter. In fact, after last Pride it had taken over a month before Enjolras had stopped finding glitter on his clothes after spending more than a few minutes at Courfeyrac’s place. Today was extreme even for Courfeyrac, though. It seemed like the majority of the decorations included glitter; everywhere one looked, light was reflected from it. Enjolras expected that _that_ would stick around _well_ into the new year.

Enjolras and Combeferre had been the first people to arrive, apart from Bahorel and Feuilly who had pleased the entire Les Amis by volunteering to help Courfeyrac cook.  Not that Courfeyrac was an outright terrible chef, but Bahorel was an _amazing_ one, and Feuilly was much more practical than either of them and his presence had an amazing ability to make sure nothing went wrong.

Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta arrived with a dessert of Joly’s making, which Bossuet almost dropped on their way in, but Feuilly managed to save just before it fell to the ground.

“Waiter instincts,” he said when everyone stared at him, half of them having lost their jaws at his quick catch.

“Well, now I feel inferior,” Musichetta joked as she took off her jacket. “Where are my waitress instincts?”

“I don’t know,” Feuilly said. “Maybe you just don’t have my kind of experience.”

“Oh, shut up,” Musichetta laughed. “I’ve been doing this longer than you.”

“And yet…” Feuilly joked, which earned him a mock glare from Joly.

“I’m not afraid to use this if you keep going,” he said as he lifted one of his crutches slightly.

_This must be one of his good days_ , Enjolras thought.

“I won’t, I won’t!” Feuilly said with a suppressed a smile, before disappearing out into Courfeyrac’s kitchen with the dessert.

“Sorry, Joly,” Lesgles said sheepishly, but Joly dismissed the apology as unnecessary.

It didn’t take long after that for Théa, Cosette and Éponine to show up.

“Hej alle sammen!” Pontmercy said as she entered the living room. “Hvordan går det?”

“What language is that?” Bahorel asked, clearly amused. Théa had a habit of practicing the many languages she was learning by talking them to the uncomprehending members of Les Amis

“It's Danish!” She said.

“Danish?” Lesgles said. “Why are you learning that?”

“It’s an interesting language!” She exclaimed. “It’s-”

“It’s also completely useless,” Éponine said as she threw herself on Courfeyrac’s couch. “Sorry.”

“Every language has value,” Pontmercy insisted. “Hey Feuilly, back me up!”

Feuilly, who had just entered the room from the kitchen, quickly came to his defense.

“Well, of course all languages have value…! To learn a language is to widen your understanding of other peoples and no people is unimportant in the fight against capitalism; the fight has to be global, and… and...” He trailed off. “What are we talking about?”

Enjolras was idly spinning his stim ring while all of this was going on, feeling no need to socialise yet. The others seemed to know him well enough not to drag him into their conversation right now, because no attempt at that was made, even though the armchair he sat in was right next to the couch occupied by the talkative group of Joly, Lesgles, Musichetta, Pontmercy, Cosette and Éponine.

Well, Cosette wasn’t talkative till Musichetta struck up a conversation with her; she had some anxiety issues, Enjolras had been told. Though anyone would probably feel intimidated when alone in the company of the whole Les Amis. Cosette was a member herself, of course, but she hadn’t been for more than a couple of months, and it took longer than that to really integrate into their group.

“R, Jehan, Combeferre… are they the ones we’re waiting for?” Lesgles asked.

“Combeferre’s in the kitchen,” Enjolras said. “It’s just Grantaire and Jean.”

“Jehan wrote that they’d get here a bit later, but I don’t know what’s up with R,” Lesgles said.

“It’s R,” Éponine said drily.

Lesgles made a face that seemed to say “fair enough” and Enjolras didn’t think much of it either, not until after Jehan had arrived.

They arrived around an hour after Enjolras and Combeferre, looking very tired, but with a blissful smile on their face. They’d only just gotten home from Prague that same morning.

“It’s so good to see all of you!” They said between yawns.

“Come here, you!” Musichetta said as she grabbed Jehan and dragged them down on the couch into what quickly turned into a cuddle pile. Jehan laughed with delight.

Courfeyrac turned up in the door mere moments after.

“Jehan, hello!” He said with a big grin. “So, it’s only R now…?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said.

"And he's not taking his phone," Joly added.

“Okay, I love R, you all know that I do,” Lesgles started from his place at the bottom of the cuddle pile. “But I am also absolutely starving.”

Courfeyrac looked around the room a single time.

“So, everyone in favour of just eating now and giving R food when he gets here?”

Scattered words of affirmation could be heard. Enjolras didn’t say anything.

It wasn’t out of character for Grantaire to be late, so maybe Enjolras shouldn’t worry. None of the others seemed to be doing so, and some of them definitely knew Grantaire better than Enjolras did. Still… Enjolras hadn’t heard from Grantaire at all since the day Courfeyrac came home, and he’d seemed…. well, he hadn’t seen on top when he went home from there. Enjolras had tried to contact him, at that, sent him a tentative few messages, but when no answers were forthcoming, he didn’t know how to interpret it.

Enjolras went to the dinner table frowning and stimming, but remained quiet, even ignoring Combeferre’s questioning look.

  


If one was to ask Grantaire - which, why would you? Don’t. Don’t do that, bad idea, take it from the man himself - there were two ways to handle things you didn’t want to do.

One: Just not doing it. Completely avoiding it. Saying nope, fuck off and then just. Not.

Two: Keep procrastinating, even though that would only make everything worse. In fact, keep procrastinating till you felt as bad as you possibly could. Then do it. 

Just doing it wasn't an option, of course. 

Grantaire didn’t want to go to Courfeyrac’s New Year’s party. Well, part of him did - he would rather be with his friends than alone - but a large part of him did not want to be there at all. He’d split on too many of the people there to feel uncomplicated about it. And Enjolras… yeah, he was avoiding Enjolras in the futile hope that it would counteract the idealisation just somewhat. Maybe. It was easier to not confront himself with Enjolras indifference.

Of course Grantaire knew right from the start that he was going to take the second option on this one. Getting out of being there would be more of a hassle than he cared to go through, and so he _was_ going. It was only a matter of _when_.

That evening, he spent at least an hour lying in his bed playing mobile games for no particular reason. Well, the reason was then he didn’t have to get up, that was how procrastination worked, but for no _reasonable_ reason, one might say. Grantaire had five missed calls from Joly, two from Bossuet and one from Courfeyrac when he finally rolled out of his bed, landed clumsily on the floor and went to take a piss.

He found himself in the kitchen afterwards, where he was reminded that he was already an hour and a half late for the party. Grantaire ran a hand over his face as he sighed, then slowly moved it to run through his curly hair instead. He hadn’t gotten it cut in over a year. Not since he started being able to pass.

He took a hair tie from the counter and made a loose, clumsy bun of his hair, before bowing down to the cupboard he kept most of his liquor in. He considered the contents a bit, as if he had all of the time in the world. In the end he realised he didn’t care enough to be able to make a decision, so he just stuck his hand in there and grabbed the first bottleneck his fingers touched and took a deep swig of it.

Tequila, he vaguely registered.

He put down the bottle on the table. He felt as empty as he had before drinking from it.

“Suppose I should get going,” he mumbled.

  


Enjolras had been talking to Combeferre and Feuilly about the Arab Spring and the international media’s coverage thereof when their discussion was interrupted by an indignant shout.

“Shut the fuck up, that’s not what happened…!” Éponine yelled at Théa over the music.

Théa, who was cuddling with Courfeyrac, was struggling for air as she laughed and laughed and laughed; she couldn’t even respond to Éponine.

“What did happen, then?” Cosette challenged with a grin.

Enjolras didn’t get to hear Éponine’s explanation before his attention was diverted again.

“Hey, Grantaire, listen to me…!”

Making out Jean’s voice between the loud music and the talking and laughing around him was difficult, but Enjolras turned his head at the mention of Grantaire’s name. Jean was on the phone.

“Listen, hey…. yes, yes, I’m excited to see you too…. where are….? Do you need…?”

Jean looked up and met Enjolras’ eyes. They gave him a questioning look and a shrug Enjolras thought might express vague worry. Enjolras got up from his seat.  

“R, darling, do you want to talk to Enjolras?” Jean said and Enjolras couldn’t fathom why.

He twitched his fingers in confusion, and was just about to chew his shirt when Jean met his eyes directly and handed him their phone. Enjolras opened his mouth to say something, but ultimately didn’t know what.

“You might help,” Jean said, as if that explained anything.

Enjolras put the phone to his ear and was immediately met with the sound of Grantaire’s rambling. He couldn’t make much of it out, not with all this noise - he didn’t fathom how Jean had been able to - so he retreated to the kitchen.

“Hi Grantaire, I hope you can hear-” Enjolras began

“Enjolras!” Grantaire exclaimed in a voice that unnerved Enjolras, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. “It’s... really you…” He slurred.

“Why wouldn’t it be…?” Was all Enjolras could think to ask.

All he got from the other end was laughter.

“Where are you Grantaire?” Enjolras asked. Jean had tried asking that, it hadn’t seemed like they’d gotten a response.

“I’m… I’m almost there,” Grantaire said. God, he sounded drunk. “Don’t…. Jehan worries too much… I’m… huh.”

“What?”

“I’m talking to Enjolras.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said.

“Enjol…. you don’t…” Grantaire paused to gather his words. “Do I matter, Enjolras?”

Enjolras was taken aback by the vulnerability in Grantaire’s voice, so a beat went by without him saying anything.

“To you, I mean…. I mean no-one matters, of course, nothing… nothing does. But… people can matter to… to other people… Enjolras...”

When Grantaire said his name, it sounded like a plea. It was disconcerting.

“Yes,” Enjolras hurriedly got out. “Yes, Grantaire, you matter to me.”

The other end of the line was silent for so long that Enjolras began to fear that had somehow been the wrong thing to say.

“Oh!” Grantaire exclaimed so suddenly that Enjolras jumped a bit. “I’m here.”

Without further ado, Grantaire hung up.


	7. Chapter 7

These stair were very… wonky, weren’t they? Very, uh, very…. vertical.

 _Yes, Grantaire, very astute, the stairs are vertical, good job_ , Grantaire’s voice of reason supplied, to which Grantaire answered: _damn, I thought I’d shut you down?_

The next few steps went okay, but Grantaire missed the last step and yelped as he fell on his face. Damn it. He just needed to get there, already. He needed to see Enjolras.

Enjolras, to whom he _mattered_.

The humiliation of vulnerability seemed worth it, just to know that.

Before Grantaire could make it fully up the stairs, a group of his friends appeared in front of him. Scattered exclamations of his name and further babbling that all melted together ensued, as Grantaire sloppily kissed and hugged his friends.

“We were going to go look at fireworks, want to come with us?” Bossuet asked.

Grantaire considered the group. Enjolras wasn’t among them, but all the friends who currently made not just a pang of _wrong, bad, no_ go through Grantaire, but also a pangs of guilt and self hate, were here: Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Joly and Bossuet. Feuilly and Combeferre were all over each other, at that, which….

“Nah,” said Grantaire, gesturing vaguely as he spoke. “I saw plenty on my way here.”

“The others are still up there, I’ll let you in,” Courfeyrac said with a grin and an arm over his shoulder.

 _Enjolras_ , Grantaire thought, too far gone in intoxication to condemn himself for it.

It didn’t take long till he saw the blessed man’s face. Grantaire couldn’t help it; he threw himself at Enjolras when he saw him. He heard Enjolras laugh quietly, felt him run his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t breathe, it seemed as if affection from Enjolras was a more real source of sustenance than even air. He needed this, he needed him, he couldn’t…

If the others thought Grantaire’s drinking problem was out of hand, it was nothing compared to the intoxicant Enjolras could be for him.

It came as a shock when Enjolras disentangled himself from Grantaire, so much so that Grantaire almost lost his footing.

“Wow,” Enjolras laughed as he took hold of Grantaire’s arm. “You should sit down.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire chuckled and wobbled over to the couch.

He threw himself down before turning around to look at Enjolras. He looked stunning in his thin red t-shirt, the golden-died edges of his hair standing stark against both the red and his natural brown.

“You’re beautiful,” Grantaire said, though he hadn’t meant to.

Enjolras, who had been keeping his eyes downcast, looked up at Grantaire with a start. Grantaire had hardly noticed before, but Enjolras had been tapping his fingers against his leg since Grantaire sat down and the tapping sped up at his words. He looked down again before he spoke.

“Thanks…” Enjolras said quietly enough that Grantaire strained to hear it over the music.

A beat or two went by without either speaking. Grantaire was close to hating himself for his honesty, for his big stupid mouth that always ran off without him, when Enjolras finally sat down next to him and spoke again.

“I used to get told that a lot, you know,” he confided. “From cis people, though it’s... “

Enjolras frowned as he searched for the words.

“It’s like being punched in the stomach by someone who thinks they’re doing you a favor,” Grantaire said, picking up an abandoned beer to check whether it was empty.

“Right.”

Enjolras was wringing his fingers quietly. He was so different like this. Some part of Grantaire wondered if the music and people and just _everything_ was getting to him or if there was some other reason for Enjolras discomfort - Grantaire, namely.

“I never had that exact problem, of course. I made an ugly girl,” Grantaire’s mouth continued before downing the rest of the abandoned beer. “Not that I’m a treat to look at now, mind, but at least I can just claim I have some cub thing going on.”

Though Grantaire didn’t feel entirely in control of what he was saying - hell, when did he? - he had meant what he said to spark some kind of amusement in Enjolras, but when he turned to look, Enjolras earnest brown eyes was considering him rather seriously.

“I think you’re very handsome,” Enjolras said, his eyes flickering away the moment he started to speak.

Then Grantaire felt a warm hand on top of his own and he felt much drunker than any of the alcohol this evening had made him. He stared at Enjolras, stared at the face of this perfect, beautiful, precious man who meant more to him than he could even start to describe and he had to sink a lump in his throat before he was able to speak again.

“‘Handsome’?” He asked, his words coming out in an unintentioned whisper. “Trying to assure me of my masculinity, Enjolras?”

The deflection was so natural to him that only an intense familiarity with his own bullshit even let him recognise what he was doing.

“I…”

Enjolras struggled with his words again. He was a brilliant speaker, able to inspire passionate flames in the hearts of any who would hear him, he could speak with such conviction of the causes he cared for that even Grantaire’s dispassionate heart stirred, and yet he struggled in these private moments where passion for the cause couldn’t propel him forward into sublimity.

“Even with…” Enjolras tried again. “Even with our, uhm... clashes. With your provocations and my temper, with… everything. Well, I… Despite everything, I don’t think you know this but… knowing a trans guy like you, when you’re a, you know… ‘feminine’ and non-passing guy like me, it’s…. well, knowing that you…. that you _made it_ , I guess, and that you don’t look down on me, it’s... “

Enjolras couldn’t finish explaining exactly _what_ it was, but Grantaire thought he’d gotten the gist of it.

“Well, saying I ‘made it’ is probably over-stating things, considering which one of us is an alcoholic drop-out,” Grantaire said and yep, of course he had to deflect again, even with Enjolras telling him about how he _mattered to him_. “But, you know… glad to be of some use.”

Enjolras frowned slightly at his words and removed his hand from Grantaire’s.

“We’d all help you if you let us, you know…” he said.

Would they? Weren’t they busy loving each other more? Grantaire didn’t want to be any more of a burden than he already was. Half of the group only tolerated him out of pity at this point, he wouldn’t be able stand _any_ of them if he let them “help” him.

“Where are the others?” he asked instead.

“I think Theá and Cosette are making out in Courfeyrac’s room,” Enjolras said, blessedly allowing the subject change though his frown did deepen at it. “And Jehan and Éponine are smoking by the balconet.”

“Right…” Grantaire mumbled and began checking more of the abandoned beverages for left over booze.

“You know, Bahorel knows a ton of people, I bet he could get you some kind of job related to the art world,” Enjolras said with renewed confidence evident in his voice as he began to plan. “Or maybe Courfeyrac, I mean, you know how charismatic-”

“Damn, Enjolras, I’m way too drunk for this shit,” Grantaire interrupted and forced himself to laugh.

“You may have a point,” Enjolras said and looked pointedly down at…. at Grantaire’s hand on his thigh, fuck! When had that happened?!

“Shit, sorry…” Grantaire mumbled and removed his hand as if he’d been burned - and maybe he had been, by Enjolras’ purity and passion.

“It’s fine,” Enjolras said, but he brought his legs up to his chest and hugged them, so Grantaire doubted it really had been  
The movement caught Grantaire’s attention for an additional reason; it made Enjolras’ t-shirt move in such a way that Grantaire caught a glimpse of Enjolras’ binder.

“How long have you been wearing that?” He asked, before his head had really caught on.

Enjolras looked confused for a moment before looking down at himself and seemingly realising what Grantaire was referring to.

“Don’t worry about it,” he just said.

“You know you shouldn’t-” Grantaire started, as hypocritical as ever.

“Combeferre said it would be fine,” Enjolras interrupted and looked at Grantaire as if that statement should mark the end of the discussion.

It had quite the opposite effect on Grantaire, however, who felt himself grow angry at his opinion being passed over for Combeferre’s.

“Combeferre? What the hell does he know about that?” Grantaire demanded.

“He’s studying medicine, so quite a lot,” Enjolras said.

“Right, I thought Les Amis was all about allies not speaking over the people they ally with, but whatever, man, Combeferre’s always right, isn’t he?” Grantaire said, only vaguely aware of what he was saying at this point. “No reason to listen to me, I’m just the bastard who went through the exact same thing, but I guess with how useless the rest of me is, my opinion on shit I actually know about must seem so as well…”

“Who I, a trans person, choose to listen to isn’t a matter of anyone _getting spoken over_ , Christ, Grantaire!” Enjolras exclaimed. “And you’re not fucking useless, stop saying that, _you’re not_!”

This was so typical. So, so typical. He’d been having a good time with Enjolras, had been getting validation from him, but of course he had to go pick a fight with him over something stupid. Of course. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Grantaire could tears coming on, but he was a regular at holding them back. His breath was coming fast, though, and he was in no state of mind to do breathing exercises. What the fuck were they even arguing _about_? Grantaire knew Enjolras trusted Combeferre more, liked him more, loved him more, prefered him to Grantaire. That was hardly knew. Why did he have to be like this?

“Fuck you,” Grantaire just said, but here was no real bite in the words and Enjolras seemed to take it in stride. Used to Grantaire’s bullshit, of course.

Instead of looking at Enjolras, Grantaire got up and went directly for the halt-empty wine bottle he’d spotted.

“Right, that’ll help,” Enjolras muttered with an annoyed sigh.

With renewed liquid courage, Grantaire turned around to look Enjolras in the eyes just to make completely sure his eyeroll would be obvious to him. He hadn’t been prepared for the hard look Enjolras met him with, however.

“You know, maybe Courfeyrac is right, maybe you should…” Enjolras began.

He kept on speaking but Grantaire didn’t hear it. All he heard was the rush of anger flushing to his head and around in it that made him clench his fists and brought that damn feeling around his eyes back.

It wasn’t just that Enjolras had brought up the two people Grantaire’s brain perceived as the biggest threats to their relationship within the last minute, it was the clear prioritisation of their opinion and input over his and it was the implication of those last words.

They talked about him behind his back. Discussed _his issues_ . What to _do with him_. Hadn’t Enjolras brought up ‘helping’ him before, too? They wanted to change him, as if a self-destructive machine this well-oiled could ever be nudged out of it’s path.

A person such as Grantaire could never be anything but a pity project for people like Enjolras. People like Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Feuilly. Hell, even Joly and Bossuet, apparently. That was all he was to them. Sure, maybe Enjolras did like a bit of validation from a post-op guy, but he sure as hell didn’t need it. He didn’t admire Grantaire and he didn’t fucking love him, not even close to it.

Fuck. Everything had been going so well, how had they gotten here, how had they gotten to Enjolras rubbing in his face how, despite how he cared about Grantaire, he would always care much, much more about all the others? How, whatever he felt for Grantaire was miniscule compared to the deep affection his true companions were owed? Grantaire felt sick, and the drinking had very little to do with it.

“Fuck Courfeyrac!” Grantaire yelled, stopping a stream of words he’d not been present enough to hear.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras exclaimed and got up from his seat, the commanding presence he was known for in other contexts suddenly evident in this one, too.

“And fuck Courfeyrac, too, and fuck Feuilly and Bossuet and Joly and _fuck you_ , Enjolras!”

For a long moment, none of them said anything. The whole apartment seemed silent, the music drowned out by the intensity of what had just happened between them. Enjolras looked livid, and Grantaire felt it, too.

“Why do you pretend to care?” Grantaire demanded. He was shaking now, not sure if it was from anger or anxiety or just the deep self hate found at the bottom of it all. He didn’t stop to figure it out, or to force his crying to stop, but just kept yelling:

“I understand disliking me, I’m not exactly likable, but fuck, why do people always have to get my hopes up?!”

Tears were flowing freely down his cheeks as he turned around and ran from Courfeyrac’s apartment, without sparing even a glance at the very person he’d wanted so badly to see just an hour ago.


	8. Chapter 8

Enjolras woke up early. He’d always been an early riser, but waking up at 8 am after going to sleep at 4:30 probably had more to do with sleeping on Courfeyrac’s uncomfortable couch than anything else.

He spent much of the morning in a haze of tiredness and a - blessedly mild, considering his alcohol intake the night before - hangover. He was, on some level, aware of what he was forcing himself not to think of, but he’d no intention of letting his mind drift to it yet. Instead he merely filled his glass with water several times and ate some of Courfeyrac’s bread without letting his thoughts go far from the task at hand.

Feuilly was the first of the others to wake up, and after he’d disentangled himself from Combeferre, it didn’t take long for him to stir, as well.

“Do you want coffee?” Feuilly whispered to Enjolras, who nodded, and when the sound of bean grinding found it’s way into the living room from the kitchen, Combeferre got up and the rest of the sleeping-on-shitty-mattresses-in-the-living-room people started to rise. Joly, who was on the other couch, seemed to still be asleep, but as the rest of them started talking quietly, he, too, awoke.

“Should we wake up Courfeyrac and Bahorel…?” Combeferred asked almost an hour later.

“Are we sure we want to do that?” Lesgle joked.

Combeferre didn’t get it and while Enjolras thought he did, he wasn’t nearly sure enough to comment.

“Right, who here has seen both of them naked before?” Musichetta asked in the same tone of voice Lesgle had used.

“Well, me and Enjolras grew up with Courfeyrac, so we’ve seen him, but I don’t really understand what-”

“They slept together and now people are awkward about it,” Feuilly explained.

“We’re not being awkward!” Lesgle protested while Musichetta said: “That’s fair.”

“Anyway, I’ve slept with both of them, so don’t worry, children, I’ll go deal with it,” Feuilly said and went to get up.

Everyone had some surprised verbalisation to offer at that. Enjolras had known about Courfeyrac - he’d been rather upset, to be honest. He wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, dedicated to free love and sex as he was, but with a crush on Feuilly and Courfeyrac being one of his best friends… and the fact that Enjolras hadn’t figured out he was one the ace spectrum yet, either... well, it hadn’t been a fun time for him.

Enjolras hadn’t known about Bahorel, but… well, it didn’t surprise him. Feuilly and Bahorel were close and neither of them coupled sex and romantic attachment very often.

Despite a cry for answers, Feuilly just grinned and shrugged, then left the room.

Enjolras kind of wish he could have done the same when the subject of Grantaire finally got brought up. He probably should have spend his morning processing what had happened, but denial was so much more comfortable… Strange, how heavy political subjects seemed a lighter weight than his own emotions.

“What happened last night?” Combeferre asked him quietly, after everyone had been gathered in the living room for a while. “With Grantaire?”

Enjolras sighed heavily as all eyes turned to him, despite Combeferre’s low volume. Evidently, he hadn’t been the only one wondering.

“I’m not entirely sure…”

He told them what had transpired, as best he could, and as his explanation moved forward, he noticed Lesgles and Joly exchanging meaningful glances.

“I think…” Lesgles began. “I think we know what it is. He…”

Lesgles frowned and it seemed like he was trying to decide how much he could say, because he threw a questioning look at Joly before continuing. “This happens sometimes. We’ll talk to him.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said.

“ _You’ll talk to him?_ ” Courfeyrac repeated, a slight note of indignation in his voice. “Don’t you think _he_ ought to talk to _Enjolras_?”

“Well, of course, but…”

Lesgles sighed and looked helplessly at Joly.

“He needs time,” Joly said. “Honestly, we can’t be sure how much good us talking to him will even be able to do. Especially not if he seemed upset with us, too.”

Feuilly groaned, which turned all eyes on him.

“I knew something was wrong, I should have…”

He shook his head.

“He… he got pissed at me, the other night. For… well, for showing I was worried about his drinking, I think.”

“Always a bad idea,” Lesgles mumbled.

“Why didn’t you say?”  Enjolras asked.

“I… didn’t think much of it, I suppose. Sometimes people just need someone to take it out on, I thought that was all it was... “

“You’re far too forgiving,” Bahorel said. “How would it be okay for him to take his anger out on you?”

“When you grow up the way I did, Bahorel,” Feuilly said, “you get used to that sort of thing. Too used to it, perhaps, but I focus far more on what I’m willing to give people than what they deserve.”

“Still,” Bahorel said. “Would probably have loosened some tension if you’d confronted him. He’s far easier to deal with after a... purge, so to say.”

“So this is where you recommend getting into fights with him, I guess?” Combeferre asked.

“I don’t get into fights with him, we spar for fun,” Bahorel argued. “But… yes.”

“Listen, none of you need to go fight R, okay?” Lesgles said. “Like Joly said, he needs time.”

“I just wish I knew what was going on inside his head…” Enjolras admitted.

“Don’t we all,” Lesgles said.

 

 

“That’ll be 12 Euros, please” Grantaire said, failing entirely to keep how much he wanted to die out of his voice.

He’d finally gotten a job again. At a supermarket. He hated it. He really, really hated it. But as much as life was meaningless, he _did_ have to play by capitalism’s rules as long as he was alive, so here he was. Scanning chips and beers and condoms and energy drinks in a supermarket at 2 am. Lovely.

Grantaire had been without a job since late-November. He’d been fired from his last job for failing to show up one too many times. He did do commissions and sell some artwork online, so he hadn’t been entirely without an income, but the money he made from that was pretty minimal compared to his expenses. With how much debt Grantaire had, he sometimes found it hard to care that he was spending more than he should be. Besides that, the fact that money was real and had meaning had always been a bit of a mystery to Grantaire - numbers confused him so much, in any context - so being frugal had never been one of his skills.

The short of it was, he needed the money. So here he was. In the middle of the night. Working at a supermarket. Such was capitalism.

It was already mid-January. Grantaire hadn’t seen anyone he cared about in weeks. Getting drunk or high with friends that existed solely for those purposes was easier. No false hopes there, no expectations to hold in check. No getting hurt.

It was somewhat reassuring that Joly and Bossuet had tried several times to get in contact with him. Of course the only thing at play was guilt, he knew that, which was why even when they’d physically shown up at his place, he’d pretended not to be home, but knowing that someone would notice him being gone at all was comforting nonetheless. They hadn’t been the only ones writing him, however; Jehan and Combeferre had as well. Oh, and Floréal. He’d heard nothing from Enjolras, but he couldn’t have expected differently.

Not only hadn’t he seen anyone he cared about in a while, he hadn’t actually socialised outside of work for several days now. He was in the early stages of an isolation cycle. He’d known that for days. He’d known he probably should do something about it for days, as well. The fucked-up-ness of a socialising Grantaire was only surpassed by the fucked-up-ness of a isolated Grantaire. He just couldn’t seem to find the energy.

“A vodka, too, please” a customer said.

Grantaire decided he didn’t care enough to ask for ID.

“Which one?” he asked instead and went to pull down the one the customer wanted.

  

On one hand, Enjolras loved protests. They were a necessary tool for the people to speak up about discontentment, it was a way to rally together for a worthy cause. On the other hand, though, with the amount of noises and people present, they were always sensory hell.

This was far from Enjolras’ first protest. He knew how to handle himself in it now. Still, it remained an unpleasant aspect of the experience for him. Especially today, where he was walking right behind the wagon they had their speakers on.

Joly was sitting in the wagon, kept company by Bossuet and Jehan. While Bossuet was hanging out the back of the wagon encouraging the protesters to take part in his chants, neither Joly nor Jehan were partaking in them. They rarely did, for anxiety reasons.

Enjolras, however, was doing the chants as well. It was almost cleansing to let one’s indignation out in such a way, he found, and the repeating nature of them was very satisfying to his brain, besides.

“This is a good turn out,” Feuilly half-yelled next to him.

“Yeah, I’m pleased with it,” Enjolras replied.

“Sorry I couldn’t be much help in preparing for it.”

“Oh don’t worry about that, I had Grantaire and…” Enjolras trailed off. “I had other members of Les Amis helping me.”

Feuilly frowned, but said nothing. The others had been pretty quiet about the Grantaire situation, in general. To the extent that Enjolras suspected they must have promised each other to be. On one hand he was grateful of it, but on the other… not talking about it at all was so weird.  

He hadn’t tried to contact Grantaire yet. Joly had said he needed time and Enjolras trusted Joly to know what Grantaire needed almost more than he trusted Grantaire to know it. He had considered it, yesterday. In a sentimental moment he’d wanted Grantaire to see the protest he’d helped prepare for and he’d almost written to him to ask if he would come. Asking such a thing of him, if he was in an uncharitable way, though… it didn’t seem the wisest idea.

Understanding others didn’t come easily to Enjolras and he wouldn’t claim to understand much about Grantaire, but he did know that the worse Grantaire was feeling, the more nihilistic he became.

Enjolras missed Grantaire, but he was angry, too. He hadn’t felt the anger much the last week and a half, but he knew it was still there, and he feared it would flare up the moment he actually saw Grantaire again. Enjolras cared deeply about everything he took the time to do and befriending Grantaire was no exception. How Grantaire could doubt that, it was…!

...well, it was as heartbreaking as it was infuriating.

Whatever else Enjolras felt regarding Grantaire - and there were a lot of things, most of which he couldn’t put words to - he mostly felt worried. He knew he wasn’t the right person to help Grantaire - if he had been, this wouldn’t have happened, he wouldn’t still be angry - he’d have done _something_ by now - but he so did hope _somebody_ would.

Well, Lesgles and Joly would, surely. They always had in the past, right?

As Enjolras shouted their chant yet again, he wondered if that was enough.


End file.
